Rediscovering The Flawed Beauty of Love
I wish I could embrace you whole in my arguments.
.
That we would know each other better than our beliefs.
That you could again be that beauteous girl with the nervous smile,
and I would be the disingenuous boy who couldn't contain his ardour.
.
Now we come fully armed, and armoured, into our evenings,
the bedroom a battlefield of unbudging severities.
.
I have time and again told myself that we are more
than our spilled blood,
and the unremitting ache which flows in empty veins
is a harking back to the days when things we didn't agree on
didn't
even
matter.
.
It was a wounded realization that there are no heroes in love,
only partners -
the ones who egg on,
the ones who don't give up on you.
.
I secretly look at your livid inconstancy,
and I know you would cry the moment I left.
And it struck me,
how we were real only when apart.
.
I walk across the room, and sit at your feet,
open, realized, ready,
and I hope you would cry,
and we would somehow claw back
into the flawed beauty of each other.
Musings
One of the abiding tragedies of love is the lack of breathing space between lovers. The freedom they experienced, and which brought them together to begin with, suddenly switches into ownership and expectations which can never ever match with what is ordinarily possible.
People, more often than not, don't drift apart, they merely suck the oxygen from around the very person they fell in love with - because she was free.
Hear these poems on the rediscovery of love: