The truth is – nights are most difficult.
Nights when my bed becomes an island
adrift in nothing.
The truth is a constant struggle
retuning my heart strings
searching for the impossible pitch.
Longing without words.
The truth is – between the spaces
and misconnections, a small…
I grow weary of this consumptive heart of mine. Weary of the empty promises of “this time will be different” even though we both know I am a terrible liar. Weary of echoed romantic mishaps. We tell ourselves mistakes happen so we learn. If I stubbornly repeat them - what’s the lesson there? A glutton for punishment, prehaps? If gluttonous, then I am a glutton gorged on the feast of romance. I wantonly devour hearts in vain hopes they will satiate my insatiable hunger. I descend upon affection as a starved creature driven half-mad with craving.
Love is not a destructive fire ablaze with passion; all consuming. That is lustful attraction. I must not mistake that fickle heat for the true nourishment I crave. Love’s light comes from the small, comforting glow; warming on even the chilliest of nights. When I am with you, I wonder: have I found it at last? I have been wrong so often before; I so fiercely want to be right. If it is love, then I must proceed with more caution. I must kindle and maintain this joyful spark, but also remember not to smother in my desperation to be ever closer. I must keep my gluttonous nature in control, my love, or I fear it will consume us both.