putting it in terms of j.a.
robin caught me on the rebound.
i'm not sure if she hates me now, or merely
despises me, either way, no good,
but what could i do? i don't like rum and coke
and she tasted like make-up.
now annie and i are an item. by this time
next month, or the month after,
or maybe by christmas, she will hate me
or despise me. it isn't that she
tastes of make-up, she is make-up free,
and it isn't the rum and coke,
she prefers wine. i like wine.
it's something else, namely, i don't love her
and i can't or won't say those words
to her after she says them to me.
she thinks i'm something i'm not,
that, in the proverbial nutshell,
is the cause of the slime trail of hatred
i leave behind. i look intriguing
and sultry and cool, but looks deceive.
i'm a pill too large to swallow,
and given enough time, it comes out.
only julie still likes me, which
is no small thing, as she is very dear to me.
terri doesn't hate me, she simply
moved on after finding my nature
and hers were so different.
there were no harsh words, on the contrary,
she said lovely things to me, by letter,
which i tore up and binned immediately.
annie, she is a little complicated.
she wants a lot from me. some of which
i can give her, some i cannot.
it isn't going to work, and, seriously,
i would like to do the right thing by her,
which is to end it now, but then come
the sad, vulnerable looks, even tears,
and the words i need to say, i cannot say,
and so another night comes and goes.
i know i come back to this
every single time, but rose, my north
country girl, and i, we were . . . it was
different. it was a level of intimacy
i hadn't known possible, and i think
she felt the same way. everything
was accepted and acceptable
between us, the pleasantness
of each other's company was enough.
that we never had a chance
for physical intimacy, beyond a kiss,
was okay, was fine, because somehow
we knew it would be perfect.
after an experience like that,
i don't see how i can love anyone else. ever.
i probably will, i hope i will, but in a way,
i know i won't. not like rose.
my friend and i have talked of this,
that a love such as this, living
only as potential, can live perfectly,
and that is a good and happy thing.
rose will always be my perfect love,
and maybe i am hers. i hope so.
if this were a tale told by jane austen,
she would find a way to bring my rose
and me together, after all, she brought
darcy and miss elizabeth together,
and they were both pills too large to swallow.
my rose is no pill. jane would have to solve
only the problem of me. we will never know
if the darcys lived happily ever after,
but they had a shot at it. along the same lines,
colonel brandon caught marianne
on the rebound, and it looked like love,
and sounded and tasted and felt like love,
but it was something lesser, some akin
to accepting second best. no way
could brandon's poetry recitations
compare with willoughby's pure,
imperfect, passionate, lustful love.
second best is not what i want,
and will not accept. i don't want
a fairy tale ending, i want no doubt,
a love without doubt, total acceptance,
and deep as forever, which is a line
miss austen, or amy winehouse
for that matter, would never have used.
annie would be my brandon. i can't do it.
meanwhile, i have my perfect love
tied up in bow and put away it a top drawer.
i can take it out, release the ribbon,
open the box and breath in my deep as forever love,
then close the box, retie the ribbon,
put it back in the top drawer and go on.
on a different note, i have my base interests
to fulfill. in that regard, being unfulfilled
with annie, sadly, i fantasize, and
get this—no i can't say it, i can't write the words,
it's too embarrassing. i'll say she is
as unlikely a candidate for my imaginings
as imaginable. i'll say she has something
that terri has, she has the dolphin quality,
and really, that does me in every time;
or, it did the one time i experienced it.
i imagine, and sigh, and know that life
is imperfect, and my self-indulgence
is what it is—self-indulgence, and my typing
is self-indulgent. four hours ago i learned
my friend has cancer. naturally, i write about me.
annie is very domestic. she likes
to make soup. she likes to nest.
but here's the thing—terri, who
was da bomb, to quote mr. stewart,
was really and truly the sweetest,
dearest, most thoughtful person,
bestowing such a depth of passion
and kindliness upon me that i am left
breathless, even now, even after she bolted.
annie's domesticity seems artificial.
i think she is role-playing.
terri was terri, at ease with herself.
this is going on too long. i'm avoiding
the last lines because the point
i intend to make is not pleasant.
it is about my unintentional proclivity
for disappointing people.
what can i say beyond what i've said,
i'm a pill too large to swallow
for all but the one person, rose, i can't have.
annie will know it soon enough.
Poetry by one trick pony
Read 549 times
Written on 2015-08-14 at 04:28
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