A pair of solicitors knocking at the door. Peddling their wares and mind infestations. I’m tempted to let them in with the charcoal light of day,
so they can better see the shadows. Feel the truth. The end of things
and expiration dates. Life interrupted, leaving the sky in tangled shades
of
blue and grey.
When the two leave my doorstep, I feel profound relief. I become
the night and wonder what else will expire.
Our love was never meant to resemble a war zone. A mine field, a hill of beans that had reached its expiration point. It took me the eternity of three
hundred days — make that closer to half a million
tortured, perforated, lingering moments —
to understand we were two punctured people
who hated the ammunition of loaded words and empty promises
of awkward pauses piling up on the page like dirty stacked laundry
or clouds bursting downpours after unbearable humidity stifled
our life support
and we became casualties of rage
like a bruised grenade exploding
everything into molten
ashes of nothingness
leaving us mutilated collateral damage.
I would like to believe
the remnants of love are more than incinerated ashes,
that the moon will dance
the stars will play
my stitched heart will once again find love
like a breath of fresh air —
that strained endings can mean tender beginnings
if one allows it
that this strident pain I’m feeling will come
with its own expiration date
on its own terms
that the knocking at the door will stop
and start once again
and a scarred broken world will seem
closer to something beautiful and brand new.
But the charred moon howls like a lonesome coyote
and each wound feels fresh
in the back of my mind.
Grace notes: It’s not easy thinking about the past, let alone writing about it. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much if I wasn’t spoon-fed ‘happily ever after.’ How naive some of us are. Why be bitter? Still, I am open to the possibility of something beautiful resembling love.
Even for us fractured, punctured, sutured people.
© Connie Song 2024. All Rights Reserved.
