I’ve always kept notebooks where I write random nonsense. The stuff in my notebooks ranges from budgets and book lists to movie quotes and song lyrics. Sometimes, I write love poems in my notebooks, then once I’ve gathered enough of them, I use them for a real book. But I only write poetry when I’m stressed, depressed, or in love. Anyone who know me knows my best work is inspired when I’m deep in all three.
This morning, I was looking through one of my old notebooks, and I bumped into this…
My deepest ache begets my broadest smile
as far inside I crumble.
I long to hear your gentle voice
when here in truth I stumble.
For you I shed a lonesome tear
yet salt, she flows ecstatic,
For in your absence is no fear
but longing, full and drastic.
You are my joy, you are my pain,
in both, my ache is equal.
I laugh so much I often cry,
yet still demand a sequel.
[*Editor’s note: there I have lied, that doesn’t even rhyme*]
To love you hurts…
I wouldn’t trade that for all the world.
You don’t just kill me softly, you kill me with silence.
I miss you. Please call me.
Now here’s the thing. I have no idea who I wrote that poem for. I can’t even remember writing it. Maybe I got it out of a book or something, but I highly doubt that. The date on the poem says 10th November 2009, 10.38 a.m. Hmm.
I consider myself a romantic, and each time I love, I love truly and deeply. But then again, I also crush on almost every guy I meet, and I get over relationships fairly fast … except of course for this one. This one took me over a month to heal.
Still, if I can love so deep and so often, I wonder if I really love at all. And if I can’t remember him two years later, then poetry or no poetry, he can’t have meant that much to me. It makes me pity all the men I’ll ever love. Will I recall my feelings for them two years down the line?