One of the things I really enjoy about my life is that as long as there are poems, I can never really lose out in relationships.
I can be hurt, but when the residue of discomfort washes away -- and it always does -- what remains is a little artifact of my life. I may not be very good at relationships, but I am a good collector of poems. Somehow, I find this comforting, and tonight, it is enough.
What I value most is balance. I find the word in almost every sentence I speak. I used to hate the Greek ideal of moderation. How can that be an ultimate goal? If it's good, it's good right? How can more not be better? One very wise professor spent a few minutes after class one day explaining that instead of moderation, it's really about the optimum. Water is good for plants, but there is an optimum amount that really lets them flourish. More or less, and they just don't grow as much.
I like to think that in my life, I strike a balance between risk and safety, love and solitude, that allows me to grow in optimal conditions. Most of the time, this is enough.
Tonight, it is enough that I can capture moments in words.
Some classic lines from today:
Me: Thanks, Leo-who's-a-gemini.
Me: Right, aquarias. I was close!
Me: Maybe we can just do what we're doing until we get it out of our systems.
Him: Right. I think I've already done that.
Me: Well okay then!
Me: Wait, wait. I'm having a contraction. Hold on.
Him: Ummm. Okay.
Me: Now, what were you saying?
Me: I have SO MUCH TO WRITE, and I'm still fucking around with the SECOND PARAGRAPH.
Lady behind me at Flying Star: (silent glare)
And what are they left with? These boys who let me slip through their fingers like so much sand? Memories that fade and start to tell lies. The realities surrounding my poems may change, but at least the poems themselves are true. Stay true. Speak to me in silent moments.
May the wide open moments outnumber the small. This is my prayer on a thunderous evening when all he wanted was to be a friend, when the truth is, I don't put up with this from friends.
Not the ones who stay.
He said I had a good sense of humor, but he never understood why I laughed so hard at him.
Isn't it obvious? You're ridiculous in your fear. We all are. What you think will happen is so far from me. It always was.
I'm left with thoughts of the next one. Will he be big enough to risk seeing me? Inviting me in? Letting me stay?
Will I choose one who can actually love me with wide open arms? Which part of me doesn't believe that's possible? Which part of me chooses broken men?
It is time to ask for more. It is time to seek out wholeness. It is time for quietness and volcano mesas. Time for ant trails and lava rock as porous as an open mind.