OLD LOVE; NEW PAIN

recovery

Minuscule ocean dripping in small increments throughout the day, I feel the wind.

I found a bag of seashells you didn't want me to keep from dead horse beach in Salem.

Saving memories in any form will surely bring on an identity crisis.

There should be a lot more pieces to the puzzle of the past few years, but I am glad they have been misplaced and lost along the way.

Or destroyed like the eggshell tea cups I smashed in your room when I left.

Each piece less pain.

Misplaced brain fragments.

Bleeding palms, marking DNA trails all over your soon to be empty room.

Laugh like a kid,

So I did.

Plenty of times I forgot how old I was,

And how old you were.

Old love;

New pain.

Passing by an old friend and barely muttering a word.

Psychological alteration.

So many autumns.

Earth morphing on repeat.

Transformation continually.

Never bearing new fruit.

Just last years seeds.

Last years rain, recycled again and again.

Last years abandoned Christmas gifts become someone else's new year sweater.

Last years lovers become someone else's new year kiss.

Last years acquaintances become this years memory maker.

This years mistakes will be next years regrets.

I have left lovers teeming with wonder all over the world.

Loving cosmically and disappearing.

I have cut off affection too early and even too late.

I have been adored by many who still would do anything for me.

Yet, I find no enamorment in myself.

Love in the time-span of seconds, hummingbird wings flapping quicker than you can blink.

I will recite my vices loudly for my soul to rattle with fear.

For love is not only an action, but a segment of repeating self serotonin overdosing.

In the manner of others, love is what we cannot find in ourselves but see shine in someone else.

Or a reflection of what we don't expose.

Love is a mirror, sometimes stained.

Sometimes tainted.

But always reflecting.

Love is an art form;

It is a sketchbook spoiled to the spine with lead and graphite.

Where images are blurred to the point of no return.

And words flow effortlessly like the flight of Venus birds.

Fingerprint smears coded with years of life.

The drama, trauma, lies and truth.

Embodied in geometrical compositions that I'll have to make do.

But I don't love you.

And I can't draw.

And that is my deeply disappointing flaw.

In the spineless sketchbook of it all,

life is not an art form.

It is a gutter clogged with leaves that never gets cleaned.

Water rushes it's way through and pushes gunk into the grass surrounding your home.

It will ruin your clothes leaving you reeking of last years autumn until you fix the gutter and let life flow clean again.

But it's so hard to be clean.

It's so hard to be loved.

Of all the things I wanna draw in my sketchbook, my life is not one of them.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I liked the thoughts in the poetry. So many statements stood out.
"Love is a mirror, sometimes stained.
Sometimes tainted.
But always reflecting. "
The above lines. Perfect. I could write a epic poem from. Thank you for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote