Yeah well so much for wedded bliss. An unknown elixir I’ll always miss. So tell me when will it all start? After the fault finding of my heart? Or post hissing names in my head? Or after the blow meant me dead? Was that when the happy marriage began? Or will I live forever as an also-ran? Or should I wait after the days of silence? Forgiven after months of muted penance? Perhaps that’s when love would finally begin Once I’m finally forgiven of my unknown sin. Or perhaps now you no longer overspeak, And see me listen quite mild and meek. Was that the solid foundation missing? Or am I Prince Charming over wishing? Or once you’ve finished the loving glare, But chide me still for daring to stare. Or those moments of push and shove. Such body contact must be true love! Rhapsodies and harmonies? Syncopated symphonies? Tell me when does true love start? Why re-open a broken heart?
Time should be standing still.
It’s four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. The soft pre-spring sunlight is warming and relaxing. Around me children are jumping and running on stone walls and grass nearby. Yelling and shouting and sometimes falling : any of whom could land on me. I vaguely notice that they’re playing with foam mats. I can hear the slap nearby any of which could hit me.
I’m aware but not worried. I’m almost imperturbable for a change!
I’m reading poetry. Not mine. That of a fellow traveller.
A few days earlier, she had introduced herself. She then said she wrote poetry. I laughed in joy. And completely forgot to introduce myself! Yet two days before that, as I then said, I was introduced as a poet. And as I failed to add, neither then or now, I didn’t argue or try to soften the impression.
The children play and nearly run into me. But I don’t sense a danger. I’m too busy reading someone whose thoughts I cannot ever imitate, whose words I can never replicate, someone not unlike me.