I can begin with begging.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a poem. I wanted it to be strong, distant, in control of itself—the attributes I also wanted for myself while I was writing it. I started by declaring that my propensity for depth and affection were selfish. That I knowingly and purposefully “drown myself in the warmth of giving away parts of myself. Even to those who don’t deserve it. Especially to those who don’t deserve it.”

Sounds nice right? Creates ownership over heartbreak and the necessary foresight to not feel foolish.

“I knew they were going to take complete advantage of my feelings. IN FACT, that’s what I was planning for!”

Okay. I even laughed as I wrote that. Because why. oh. why. Does it seem so much better to anticipate, wait for, and actually want someone not to care?

When Tessa edited it, she put a large red x through the entire introduction. “It’s throat clearing. The poem starts with ‘I beg.'”

I didn’t want to beg. I wanted to control. I wanted the world to know that I had complete power over my resulting feelings of hurt. I directed it. I decided when it began and when it stopped. It was mine.

But it wasn’t. It was my burden to bear. But it wasn’t created or given by me.

Since this poem, I’ve been mad at myself, sad with myself, learned from it, made some new mistakes, and learned from those too.

I also stopped believing that if you expect to be disregarded, unseen, and unappreciated, it will hurt less when you are.

Have a poem.

It begins with begging.

I beg
to shower you with affection.
Feel the heat radiate from your skin.

Breathe the sounds of lungs and hearts.

I’ll forgive travesties and vile
for a pair of eyes to fall into.
to devour the sentimental.

I’ll ignore the words throwing boulders at my fantasized version
of you.
As you cease to be yourself.

 I’ve purposefully forgotten
each of your unwanted edges.
Circuses will exist where boredom sat.
Adoration will replaced the callous.

And I’ll swim the pools of perfection
I’ve created.
To substitute the shallow.
Until the edges of my imagination have stretched.
Beyond its admirable potential.

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what it means to feel.

this morning, i found the words listed below amongst the scribbles of one of the few people i follow. this writer is a particular favorite of mine and the sentiment that he expressed in this poem illustrates a theme that often steals my mind.

i have read books. heard words. seen demonstrations. of the type of love that invades every aspect of ourselves.

it seeps into our bones and. for at least a portion of our moments. it resonates as the epitome of our world.

it’s intoxicating. beautiful. treacherous.

and it reminds us what it means to feel.

If there was anything other than you

I’d know it.

When walking down the street,

there are no clouds, no trees, no air.

I am not breathing. My heart is not beating.

The sidewalk has no cracks, the slushy wet snow does seep through my thin shoes.

The morning birds are not singing.

Cars do not rumble by as harried men search for the bouquets at the last minute.

Woman do not see me and I do not see them.

There is no noise, light, there is no dark.

There is only you.

And you are branded with every flavor I could taste in my waking hours,

Every scent lilting along the smog littered streets

every coy glance given and received

the crisp daylight streaming through the break in the overcast sky

the beeping trucks lifting snow

the children laughing somewhere down below an open window to the world

the sharp angles of elbows and phalanges cradle this sense in a person’s chest.

None of these things exist without the context,

of you.

every sunset follows every sunrise,

chasing the world around

looking for that place

I last saw you.

The pastel skies and cold river beds.

The boat dock sides and evergreen groves.

The skyscraper lines and country dell roads.

The cafe on Main and the in front of the flowercart on Second.

The parking esplanade and the robot spaceship.

You are none of those places;

I checked.  You were gone.

But here, with me, inside this lulled heart,

a mini drumbeat sounds out the syllables of your name.

Nothing’s finer than the taste of this tortured heart.

for Everything exists by this dream of you.

forever kind of true.

in the last couple of years. i’ve stretched into a very different person. well. at least it sometimes feels like that.

i hope to be a little less self-absorbed than i was then. i hope to be wiser. i hope that everything i learned found a distinct place to exist. so that i won’t forget it.

but.

as i was reading my old posts. i came across one that surprised me a bit.

even if i know more now. the sentiment that i expressed in these words rings a forever kind of true.

they reminded me of who i was. who i’ve always been. and who i hopefully always will be.

______________________________________

October 23, 2011

at this moment, im looking for tattoo ideas. i know what-ish i want. where i want it..what it will look like. but i dont yet know the words that are going to fill it. (of course there will be words).

i know i want something out of the history of love. because this book is my soul. it took my heart prisoner as soon as i opened its cover and only when i read it do i truly feel whole.

as i was looking through lines from the book, i came across one that made my stomach and heart lurch together while my eyes simultaneously ached to drip:

“When you are young, you think it’s going to be solved by love. But it never is. Being close — as close as you can get — to another person only makes clear that impassable distance between you.
‘If being in love only made people more lonely, why would everyone want it so much?’ 
Because of the illusion. You fall in love, it’s intoxicating, and for a little while you feel like you’ve actually become one with the other person. Merged souls and so on. You think you’ll never be lonely again.”

i dont know exactly what grabs me. every word syllable and period? probably. its sad. its true. and its lovely.

and although i love love. i love everything about it. there will always be a tiny part of me that whispers “hold onto this moment. for everything ends.” is this pessimistic? hopeless? i dont know. maybe its perfect.

if i can memorize the curve of your face, that spark in your eye, the scent of your voice: then ill always have the moments of love that inevitably fall into the lonely distance of forever.

ill have them in my heart.

and maybe with these moments trapped in our minds, maybe then we’ll never be lonely.