It is waiting,
the waiting when someone dies,
like they’ll come back.
The way they held onto your shirt,
and you mimic it,
desperate.
The sigh of their eyes,
when everything is laid open,
bodies,
journals,
closets,
bones.
Blame is a wretched lover,
blame is a ripped canvas.
Did they love me?
is always the question,
even when they stand in front of you,
or in front of someone else.
Are lies love? Does pretend love
count?
I mourn such passings,
the ones
where we are all
still alive.
To live is to suffer, to love is to suffer, to hate is to suffer, to die is for others to suffer. However, if it didn’t hurt, how could you possibly tell if it was real? if it hurts, if it leaves a void, doesn’t that mean it had at least some value? Some kind of meaning?
i believe so. but i’m trying to figure out if its worth it. reality and real-ness are gray areas for me…
If I had to choose between pain or nothing at all, I’d choose pain every time. Pain is easy, once you get used to dealing with it. 🙂
I’ve said such things before…
Shrinks, this is brilliant. My first question, and one I really should not want answered is, did they suffer?
I believe so…for both good and evil.
I actually meant that is the first question ricocheting through my mind when I find out someone close to me has died. But here, in this poem, the suffering is different because it is love or false love that dies, and this is beautifully wrought, my dear.
it is near impossible to bring myself to ask that question when someone dies.
Lord, don’t I know it. It is the one that is first there, though. I hate that.
It’s almost the only one that matters…
nothing simple here – deaths of all kinds always leave complex wounds
Do you ever stop getting better? You have a lot of talent.
Set this aside.
Really great piece.
Oh, I could relate to this one so much. You are phenomenal.
Yes! Dear Goddess Yes!
love always ends in wretched heartache. there is not a case that doesn’t.
don’t I know! death – there is always a death.