Image by Ylanite Koppens from Pixabay
Love is a blind leap from
the quietness of our frozen presumption.
Suddenly the hushed order
we proudly immure ourselves
becomes laughable and absurd--
from a lover's eye.
All the mistakes we made--
casually construed, clumsily carried out.
Then it abruptly ended
when you stormed off.
You had a bad cold and must be cranky.
Your parting words are forgotten,
but your bitter vehemence has lingered forever.
I want to call you, but I abstain.
You've changed the photo on your website,
to a more somber picture of
dullness and maturity.
You are young and old,
gullible and shrewd,
hateful and lovable--
all depending on my whim of the day.
It's not an ambivalence--
it's just a mood.
I can't call you--
if you tell me you've forgotten me,
I will be mad as hell.
Love can't stand the cool reality.
I imagine myself hurling and jumping and scratching,
like the YouTube videos of
brave and suicidal little cats
fighting against dogs.
Admit I'm a coward and be quiet.
Resign to a life of quiet desperation.
The heart doesn't forget--
it will remember things to its own destruction.