This poem is for the pillow clutchers, for those looking into the imaginary eyes of the person who fills their mind with sugarplum smiles, for those who have a cannon of dreams ready and waiting to blossom, for the men and the women who want to be understood in that way that only someone who kisses you can understand you – this poem is for you.
This poem is not for the desperate; the pathetic; the lame; the loser; not for the one who hasn’t gotten laid in awhile. Not for the one who says they’re “choosing not to date” for awhile, there is no such thing. This poem is for the people who cannot bring themselves to admit that they would give their right leg for any length of time with the person on their mind.
Forgive me. I am not a brave woman. I do not know what lurks in the hearts of humans and I don’t really want to know if what’s there mirrors memories I show in my face on bad days it holds kisses that are long gone, people who have disappeared, and passions that have faded into the ether of the past. Nothing lasts, that is the one lesson this coward can say she is able to teach.
This poem is for all those who wish to say “I’m sorry”. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you, you deserve love. I’m sorry I couldn’t give something to you, something you deserve to be given. I’m sorry that for every person that loves somebody, another person just doesn’t want to. And sometimes we’re the lucky ones, right, we get to feel sweet truth in the night. The bodies we reach out to are miraculously there, but I know the despair that comes when they are not. I know the long nights and the doubt and the fear and that crawling back to a womb that just isn’t there. I know intensity’s address and the letdown that rents there. I’m sorry for it/it takes years off your life and it cannot be avoided.
And sometimes these little words are crutches for the crush that we feel, so this poem is a pathetic vehicle for me to tell you, each one of you, that I love you. In so many ways, in the same ways that stay up nights and days, dreaming up the perfect way to be there for someone, meals you would cook for them, poems you would write for them and the things you plan to say when they say no. Well I love you, and you will never know how in the slight of a magician’s hand we could’ve been lovers and grandly in love. Could’ve changed the whole game, written words on the horizon, changed the compromise, but you will know something else instead, bitter as bitter ever gets, more bitter than a rotten peach pit, more bitter than a child’s most terrifying nightmare at night. You will know that I don’t reflect what I see in your eyes, will share some banal recognition, some cordial understanding but have I mentioned that I love you for not lying. So many people lying all the time, I hate them, so I love you. And you will still go home alone, and that is very hard to do.
For all the humans with love for those who aren’t their lovers. I love you.
And so the poem ends because we know that it will, but before it slips away like everything else, I will attempt the only words I can think of that are a fraction as good as a kiss: When you reach out at night and find not someone, but the cold grey light of day that wakes you up like a slap, like a curse, like an insult – I love you. When you stay at home thinking of those who are long gone or those who are getting kisses from someone that is not you, I love you. For those who want what they probably need and whose bodies are starving not for food, for me and for you and for all the people who never knew or understood what you would do for them – I love you. I love you. I love you.