I can’t make you
my everything
because I don’t need
you to save me.
I don’t want to make
you an object of adoration
like I’ve done the others,
worshiping you until I
give away bits of myself,
pieces and pieces of truth,
replacing them with fierce falsehood
that masquerades as a holy glow like
a light from heaven that
enhances an angel’s armour.
You’re imperfect, and I am too,
just two broken vessels
that the potter can’t fix,
at least not while we’re still breathing,
the pain of yesterday devouring
us whole like the whale swallowing
Jonah, the present, unsteady,
the future, a glimpse in
the mind’s eye, a fleeting flash
of perhaps, soon dulled by
a sobering why? But don’t
think for a moment that I
don’t love you. I do, and I know
some will call this a grounded,
realistic love, others, twisted
affection, or an ephemeral throb
of beauty, saturating the soul
for a moment and then
carried away like glitter by
the spindrift. But I don’t care
what they say, because
I’d rather be honest when
it comes to matters of the heart,
instead of staring dewy-eyed
at the stars, beseeching muses
to flood me with soothing whispers
and august reverie, before fall
hits hard, leaving me wandering
through a maze of heartache,
or staying with someone
for the sake of it
after the heart’s hard
and the cherry-blossom tunnel
becomes a monochromatic,
bland simulacrum of wonder,
making me say, I love you in
a saccharine tone a hundred times
to justify that they’re worth it.
Photo by Jill Heyer on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
Leave a Reply