Blue Sorbet

i hate the ups and downs of a relationship. one minute the love simply flows, the next, you marvel at it having ever existed at all. at least, this is how mine have always behaved, covering all ranges on the spectrum. perhaps others share loves less fraught with storm, wind and breaker. or is love, by its very nature as a chaotic embodiment of the cosmos, doomed towards the tempestuous?

i wonder and i worry but it only makes me weary.

i am determined to not let myself go down without a fight this time, that much I know, clearly.

so often do i crumple when the heart's grown dry.

is it that love is so very seasonal? are there droughts, blizzards, cold wins and hail stones? for surely there are times when petals alone float on the breeze and all about you sift the gleam lights of spring. blue sky days and afternoon suns, sometimes warm, others hot, hot enough to burn, bake and by virture of its intensity dry choke that which its dancing awoke.

I want to know when it is okay to cut and run. when am i expected to stick it out, fight the good fight? how is one supposed to know? is it based upon the obstacles faced? the love involved?

..something else entirely..?

but more so than any time in the past does this love look impossible to preserve. and yet, never have i been more eager to prevent such a loss. oh love, what a chaotic cosmic conundrum you can be.

i die a little death everytime my hands let slip golden dust.

she lives far away and our lives are different. how might we ever cause these lives to collide and how were our hearts so caused? she is older. i am young. i am not ready to grow up. she wants to buy a house. i am not ready to leave my friends. she cannot leave her mother, who has leukemia, pre-chemo.

god
love is
tragic


i think about wanting a quieter existence, the way i was before her, in the breaks lived between those many high peaks, silhouetting the horizon of my heart.

mine is always the little hut, half in a rut, slack riding the hill side in slick style. books lie open in the meadows, half read, dozing in the noonday sun. it will always be noon on my moon, forever happy lunches and close friends with their close, convivial chatter. the weather outside my home is often warm. sometimes it grows so hot as to drive us all into the stream, before laying upon the back porch shade with our eyes closed spitting watermelon seeds into the air. there are days of wind when, in order to make it, you must wear sweaters and have someone to hold, when walking the paths at sundown. most of all i know when the weather will sour, when it will sweeten. i can emotionally prepare myself for the coming changes.




how am i expected to handle them in this reality?

i just hope it gets better.