poetry

Love [it’s not about coercion – and if it is, it’s not love …] (III)

If I fear the phonecall, I don’t love myself.

If I fear the email, I stutter and titter and obviate my

being.

I have a right to exist, and this right

is mine alone.

And if alone is my des-

tiny, it’s no smaller than the alone of anyone else.

I do love my SO – as life has clearly demonstrated.

I have not been able to do what was right

in all respects.

But part of what

was not right with what I did [or did not do]

was because we are social, not solitary beings.

And life enjoyed solo when espressos are best

served double

is not a life which is easy to lead: for him, who needs

touching – and for her, who does not.

 

I have only had sex with two women in my life.

Both relationships [have] ended, in one way or

another – though the love I feel for one endures

because of times and memories and expectations

of hope and growth, and

children shared quite wondrously;

and the love, meanwhile, I feel for the other endures

because endurance was in no way the flavour

of the being touched in all aspects of

being I experienced: conversations and

expressions, and music in my ears of

unending trails of

words and beautiful pictures,

and the physical affect I never received

in other times; in all

aspects of perception, in all manner of ways,

a weird moment of strange times, a strange time

of [p’raps] unrepeatable moments.

 

That, then, is exactly my evidence of common

denominator I am.

If I have failed in both cases to express

myself well, it is not the fault of the women

I failed out there, but the fault of the man

I failed to express.

And in meeting myself today,

tomorrow and

be-

yond,

I realise the truth, and the bitterness it holds in

its casket of gold, foolish and untold till today:

my future lies in the future;

my memories in the past;

and whilst my friends and family in the present

may wish to

be with me or not, if I really want to build a hearth

and home of

consistency,

where what I need most to be

well is finally, at last, to be

given, shared and entrusted to me, and

exchanged in loving and persistent dialogue,

and beloved by both parties,

and enjoyed by both sexes,

and explored by both intelligences,

and written and painted and created by

beautiful minds I need to be a part of in order

not to be ill …

then if the woman of my marriage never needed

my touch, and the woman who most touched

me can no longer contemplate my

being, my future as described must belong with

other people: and this realisation is so

bloody hard to accept; and this realisation is so

bloody hard to reveal; and this realisation is so

bloody hard to contain in the

deepest, worst, most bloodied part of my being.

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