19/05/2015

H,

There is a sour note in the air today. I do not know why. It is probably not one thing. What would I do if I could not write? I think it is an amalgamation of failures, fears and fever dreams. I have to note that on the worst days of waking up I usually get the best days of living, in a sense. It does not get darker than my imagination.

Anyway, the poem, here is “this fallen love”:

Specter, ghost, ogbanje

You haunt me

And never let up

I am an instrument of sorts

You are an unfilled cup

I feel you in words

You forget me in a day

I feel that deep love

You disregard the embers

I felt off and unchallenged

You were worn and not without malice

You refuse to be a character in my book

In anarchy you rise

Always

Out of form

To become real

You refuse to be a talisman

I can steal

Out of imagination you always leap

Into some other thing

I have loved you for more

Than half my life

You idiot

Stop with the carrot and stick

Come with me

I love you, you are safe

Idiot, stop with the carrot and stick

Come to me

I cannot honestly tell you what all that means. It is a story, like any tale retold, full of exaggerations and enough fiction not to be a documentary account of any real person or state.

I always feel the best expressions of expected love are just cries in the dark for God. We do not really expect fallible people like us to practice anything other than fallen love? Even when we say we love people “just the way they are” with “warts and all” the small print of the offered contract is that they love us back something fierce, un-wielding and picture perfect. As long as the flaw is not infidelity, as long as the quirk is small, as long as they do not embarrass us too much when we take love out for a stroll. Yet, well, none of that is fail-safe. We are not able to love in the real sense until we first address our love to God.