You call me a pessimist. Yea, maybe. You're the optimist, so you believe all your statements are half-true. And you're left wondering why I care so much about your half-empty glass. Perhaps I just wanted to know if there was enough room left for me to fill it with my love.
There isn't. Your cup is half-full. Another triumph for optimism. And as the truth of your love fills your cup, brewed with the open faced lies he leaves inside of you, at least then I'll know what you are really made of. Then it would be my fault to drink.
You call me a pessimist. You're wrong. I already know you have more reason to not love him than you've told me. And you won't tell me because you don't want me to touch you with my words. I already know you're as dishonest with me now as you were when this all started. I already know you can't judge my book by anything more than it's cover. And still I love you.
My love is good for you. It has the power to heal and to protect and to defend. And so you've decided to brush your teeth with it and spit it out so that he can enjoy kissing you even more.
I'm the greatest optimist you'll ever meet, I'm a retired pessimist.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Sensible Love for Valentine's Day
Confused by all this talk of red. When the arrow pierced my flesh I saw only white, not a drop of red fell from my flesh. All I knew was that I was alive, because I must have been alive to witness this blinding light. The rest of me lost its claim on existence during the flash. I was utterly lost in this moment, I thought with no chance of escape. But then, colours came rushing back to my eyes as the white light melted away, and there you were, still sitting there, wondering if I had anything planned to say. But how could I? I was just reborn. My past was now a story, something I could tell you about to make the present seem less boring. Not sure what to say. I used to wear my emotions on my sleeve but the arrow hit me in the arm; I had to undress to heal the wound. It's hard to find things to talk about when you're naked. Maybe I'll just ask you what your name is.
Nothing else seems to matter when beautiful instruments are playing, not even the details of the melody.When you told me your name I was lost in the songs buried beneath your voice. One of those songs came out as I extended my hand to you, and I started to sing myself. I'm glad you were familiar with the tune. There are a lot of beautiful instruments in the world, beautiful at least when they are in tune. To their credit, when they are out of tune it helps to remind me that they are real, that they can have bad days, just like we humans, that they deserve a certain amount of attention to keep their songs alive. I wish I remembered this with you. I wish I remembered why I loved your voice so much, to know that you have every reason to sound out of tune with me, but still your soundbox vibrates and sways gently like hair in the breeze and other things I'm glad I can't predict. Like a composer, I am left only capturing your sound on paper, merely describing what you have already created.
What a shame it would be for me to grab hold of your heavenly voice for myself. I wish not to play with your strings until I know how to manipulate them for better never worse. To touch you would be a sin, would it not? As of now I only know how to pluck away at you, not yet how to strum. I'm finally in tune with all of your notes, but not yet with any of your chords. A shame, working so hard to make melodies without harmony. I have such a good ear for your music, but I've been too lazy to use that ear to listen to you play more than one note at a time. So many sounds from your past and present you've wanted to express with me, to think I robbed you of that and kept plucking. Now you need tuning, of all people I ought to allow you that. I do no how to tune you by listening, I learned how, I feel I should mention. But it's okay if you feel there are other apps for that.
I still sense a warm future of us, you know. Waking up every morning I still smell you. Your rich cedar finish fills my room with as much aroma as it does sound. A smell so warm and comforting everytime I hold you in my hands, or in those brief moments where you are at rest and I am near, I dare even say that I am curious to taste you. Perhaps that is a bit precocious to say such things, I'll limit myself to your scent, and your touch, and your sound, and the sight of you. Left with the feeling that there is yet still a complete love left for you and I to experience one day, at least through everything you've given me, I know now that my love for you is sensible.
Happy Valentine's Day, Geeta
Nothing else seems to matter when beautiful instruments are playing, not even the details of the melody.When you told me your name I was lost in the songs buried beneath your voice. One of those songs came out as I extended my hand to you, and I started to sing myself. I'm glad you were familiar with the tune. There are a lot of beautiful instruments in the world, beautiful at least when they are in tune. To their credit, when they are out of tune it helps to remind me that they are real, that they can have bad days, just like we humans, that they deserve a certain amount of attention to keep their songs alive. I wish I remembered this with you. I wish I remembered why I loved your voice so much, to know that you have every reason to sound out of tune with me, but still your soundbox vibrates and sways gently like hair in the breeze and other things I'm glad I can't predict. Like a composer, I am left only capturing your sound on paper, merely describing what you have already created.
What a shame it would be for me to grab hold of your heavenly voice for myself. I wish not to play with your strings until I know how to manipulate them for better never worse. To touch you would be a sin, would it not? As of now I only know how to pluck away at you, not yet how to strum. I'm finally in tune with all of your notes, but not yet with any of your chords. A shame, working so hard to make melodies without harmony. I have such a good ear for your music, but I've been too lazy to use that ear to listen to you play more than one note at a time. So many sounds from your past and present you've wanted to express with me, to think I robbed you of that and kept plucking. Now you need tuning, of all people I ought to allow you that. I do no how to tune you by listening, I learned how, I feel I should mention. But it's okay if you feel there are other apps for that.
I still sense a warm future of us, you know. Waking up every morning I still smell you. Your rich cedar finish fills my room with as much aroma as it does sound. A smell so warm and comforting everytime I hold you in my hands, or in those brief moments where you are at rest and I am near, I dare even say that I am curious to taste you. Perhaps that is a bit precocious to say such things, I'll limit myself to your scent, and your touch, and your sound, and the sight of you. Left with the feeling that there is yet still a complete love left for you and I to experience one day, at least through everything you've given me, I know now that my love for you is sensible.
Happy Valentine's Day, Geeta
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