Like an old giraffe blanket that meant so much to me one day
and now, no matter the angle, I simply can't remember
what it felt like to wrap myself in.
What it felt like to love.
The first time, I am standing on the edge of a field.
I am floating from the earth by inches, hands reaching out
ever-so-slightly. A breeze flutters by, curling its gentle fingers
around my heart, in a heartbeat. I reach for it, for you
but in the blink of an eye you are wrapped around the finger
of some foggy figure on the other side of the endless meadow.
The pain was sharp and long-lasting.
I thought the stars would never shine again.
But they did.
The second time, you, a whole new you, are a lump of putty,
shape undecided. You find the folds of my palm quickly, and
tuck yourself within to stay. Yet no matter how hard I try
to wrap my fingers around you, dig my peeling aqua nails
bitten to a stub beneath your surface, you slip every which way,
sticking out here and there, unable to hold, to be held.
The pain was sharp and quick.
Reluctantly, I figured the stars would shine again.
They did.
The third time, you were an assortment of ten different threads,
all woven together in some miraclulously ciruitous mess of
chevron, and a few failed attempts at those flawless diamonds.
You were beautiful at first, colors like flaunting textiles, until
tye-dye and paint from shop class and blood from my chapped lips
turned your masterpiece into just one more memory.
The pain came and went out of habit.
The stars were as unchanged as ever.
They shone.
Shouldn't I be happy, then?
Shouldn't I be marvelizing in glee, because I have somehow
outsmarted heartbreak? No, in fact,
I am scared. I am scared
because if the end-pain signifying that the experience was worth
ceases to come, then does the experience the experience become
unworthy? If the pain of losing love diminshes into
habit, then what if the love does too? What if, unknowingly,
I have trained myself to become numb to, to resist love
like an old giraffe blanket that meant so much to me one day
and now, no matter the angle, I simply can't remember
what it felt like to wrap myself in.
What it felt like to love.
and now, no matter the angle, I simply can't remember
what it felt like to wrap myself in.
What it felt like to love.
The first time, I am standing on the edge of a field.
I am floating from the earth by inches, hands reaching out
ever-so-slightly. A breeze flutters by, curling its gentle fingers
around my heart, in a heartbeat. I reach for it, for you
but in the blink of an eye you are wrapped around the finger
of some foggy figure on the other side of the endless meadow.
The pain was sharp and long-lasting.
I thought the stars would never shine again.
But they did.
The second time, you, a whole new you, are a lump of putty,
shape undecided. You find the folds of my palm quickly, and
tuck yourself within to stay. Yet no matter how hard I try
to wrap my fingers around you, dig my peeling aqua nails
bitten to a stub beneath your surface, you slip every which way,
sticking out here and there, unable to hold, to be held.
The pain was sharp and quick.
Reluctantly, I figured the stars would shine again.
They did.
The third time, you were an assortment of ten different threads,
all woven together in some miraclulously ciruitous mess of
chevron, and a few failed attempts at those flawless diamonds.
You were beautiful at first, colors like flaunting textiles, until
tye-dye and paint from shop class and blood from my chapped lips
turned your masterpiece into just one more memory.
The pain came and went out of habit.
The stars were as unchanged as ever.
They shone.
Shouldn't I be happy, then?
Shouldn't I be marvelizing in glee, because I have somehow
outsmarted heartbreak? No, in fact,
I am scared. I am scared
because if the end-pain signifying that the experience was worth
ceases to come, then does the experience the experience become
unworthy? If the pain of losing love diminshes into
habit, then what if the love does too? What if, unknowingly,
I have trained myself to become numb to, to resist love
like an old giraffe blanket that meant so much to me one day
and now, no matter the angle, I simply can't remember
what it felt like to wrap myself in.
What it felt like to love.
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