My Love

Maybe I would have stuck around when I was twenty. In fact, there’s no maybe about it. I would have. I would have stayed and hoped and I would have stuck…around. But I’m not twenty anymore; I’m more than double down.

While I don’t have the maturity to back up this claim, I do have a driver’s license and it will tell you the same. It will tell you I have years well beyond my mentality. It will tell you I have wisdom reflecting my age and exhibiting my experience. It will tell you where I live and where I come from. It will tell you of the struggles I’ve seen and climbed over and through and out on a beam. My drivers license will tell you everything you think you need to know about me and it will lie. It will deceive you. It will implore trickery galore and you won’t know much more about me than you did before. You see, I’m a broken, bruised, sometimes shattered man struggling to let go and love in a way I’ve read about and seen in the faces of many couples I know and the few that I don’t. I cry out for release and beg for the warmth of your embrace and when you give it to me, I run and I shun and I detach and withdraw knowing full well you’ll see this as an impolite decline, a decline of your offer, a rebuff of your love, a rebuke of your embrace. You will see it as all these things because that is not what love does. Love engages and attaches and commits and holds and hugs and cuddles and caresses and releases sweet expresses. Only my love does none of those things. My love runs and my love reels. My love confuses and conflicts the simple, the soft, the easy, the elegant. My love rough and rugged and restricted and drugged and bound and begging to be beaten and abused. My love yelps and pleads and cries black salty tears from the corners of its eyes. My love mixes the unmixable, shakes the unshakeable, quakes the earthquakeable and breaks the heart breakable. As bad as my love is, it easily sees what it’s meant to be. It knows what it’s not. It knows what doesn’t fit and it doesn’t dine or listen or insist or sit. My love mirrors her reflection and when she runs right, he runs left. So, with all the practice it’s had, my love should have no trouble not breaking when she’s taking her tongue…and going home. As much milk as I’ve had, I’d think I wouldn’t be sad when my love sees itself in the blond hair and brown eyes and the silvery nose-ring behind her youthful, twenty something, startled surprise. So when he (my me) sees her in the store and she’s standing on the floor he has no trouble gunning but when she starts managing and her lips start savaging and her rose starts ravaging he goes running, running for the door. My love runs wild in that store on that floor and out that door before she ever whispered or wanted any more.

No, my love knows better than to stick and to stay when it encounters a terrorized stray. But my love doesn’t seem to be able to see past the hurt regardless how healthy the pain in walking away. I may not be sticking around at forty something blue the way I did at twenty something two, but still clearly I’m stung.

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