art by agnes-cecile
Love

My clumsy poetry

I waited for you, expecting you to provide sanity amid all the insanity around. But you had things to do. And I gave in to the madness. And before I stopped waiting for you, I knew I had stopped waiting for myself.

Look around. A pretty face. And one more. Many more. A new fancy everyday. Whom would you kiss? Whom would you nibble at? Whose skin would you bite away and lick every naked crevice you can find as they shiver and surrender before the beast that you are. Whose hand would you hold? Whose eyes would you get lost into? Whose hair would you run your fingers through? Whose neck would you breathe on and offer one of your gentlest pecks, one that spells a forbidden lover’s promise entwined with the unspoken warmth of a friend. Whom would you breathe in? Is it the same person every day?

Do you love poetry or the poet? Poetry is frozen in time. Revisit it, and the words stay the same. You change, it doesn’t. A poet, however, is a mysterious oddball. Festers a new wound everyday, while healing another at the same time. A poet is mutable like a candle burning out, blazing off wax into vapour, inner turmoil ripping the soul into pieces until sentences string together, a welcome release. A poet saves his sanity through what the world calls his poetry. For him, it is nothing but frozen memories etched as words, of what his will burnt through and survived.

As the winter sets in, we seek a warm hearth and people we love. Most things do not matter as we cuddle and gather, as we sing and smile. The joy, we often forget to realise, stems from inside. Not from the fireplace. Not from the people around. Not from the gifts received. We smile at people we like, and they smile back. We shrug, they shrug. We give love generously, they give it right back with double the enthusiasm. Seasons are ruthless, not made to be tamed. It is not necessary to tame them either. All we seek is love in all its forms, whether sun shines bright or not. We can simply keep at it.

You clumsy goof, and you sleepy oaf. I notice things about you, every mispronounced word, every misstep as you walk right into a glass wall. Tantrums. Uncertainty. Absence of reason. Stubborn desire. Shameless lust. Disarming honesty. Fair demands. Self righteousness. Cracks that run deep. Naked vulnerabilities. The way you command. The way you surrender.

The way you stand strong and dig your roots in. The way you flee. The way you hide away. The way you stumble and fall and get up to fall again. The way you trip only to take a mad flight. The way you hold me tight. The way you let me go. The way you hold me up. The way you leave me behind. The way you slobber. The way you nibble. The way you bite. The way you tickle.

The way you remember. The way you forget. How you apologise to only keep doing it every single time. How you forgive, allowing me to make my mistakes. How you said you would be there and you are. How you said you won’t always be there, but you still are. The way you keep your word, and the way you keep it no matter what. And the way you don’t, but you still say you love me. Ah well, my clumsy goof, I love you too.

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