furrowed: I don’t want to write about love anymore.
Isn’t it time we get something new to discuss? I mean, what with the downfall of our economy, I did some simple math and figured that we would all be a lot richer if love songs weren’t published anymore. Same with poetry. We’ve got enough books of it in the world to ration off to everyone. “Rogerson family,” we’ll call out. “Here’s a page of Pablo Neruda’s Ugly Love.” The children’s hands will lunge at the onionskin page, fighting off one another for that silly piece of paper. Mr. and Mrs. Rogerson will chastise their children for being irresponsible and selfish. They’ll take the paper and put it in a glass case for all the family to enjoy, like a plastic covered sofa—what’s the point of having a sofa if you can’t actually sit on the thing? It’ll sit there, their prized possession, something to show off at dinner parties. Pass it on to their children’s children, amen, forever more.
But poetry about love…what a joke! Talking about how “his eyes looked like tide pools,” and, “he wore his smile like a cloak—thin and versatile.” Can’t we just curl up in our blankets and sleep love off? Because that’s what love’s like—like one giant hangover that hurts like hell in the morning but you still find yourself at night again, looking for that flashing neon sign? Who needs it anyway—not me, that’s for sure! I’m done writing out my feelings, wrenching them from my splintered insides and splattering them across paper. I don’t want for shadowy kisses or that sweet scent of your skin. I don’t want to see your mannerisms or wear your last name like a badge! And I definitely, absolutely, positively don’t want for you to fall in love with me!
Damn. I think I wrote about it again.
Even the stars reach out towards each other with outstretched fingers on rainy evenings like this. Yearning for the warmth of another. Peering down from their icy lookouts at humans snuggled warm in their beds isn’t always easy, you know, and what’s the point of glowing when an eternity of chasing the daylight leaves you with hollow, achey bones and nowhere to hang your coat? I’m not jealous of their half lives. I think the stars are just as weary of lighting up our lonely nights as we are of enduring them.
(via mermaidens)
