My Life is "Hard"

Remember the day

Heaven came splashing down

On rooftops, on cars?

With upturned faces, soft and dry

We looked upon it

Vulnerable to glass panes

Streaked with rage.

I opened the window

And stuck my hand outside

My, was that a doosie!

:/

I Loved Him

I loved him, was in love with him.

It’s a weird thing to say now--now that I’m, well, not. But I did. I loved him.

I loved him matter-of-factly, in a way that recognized his immediate positive attributes. “He has such a strong allegiance to family, to friends, to the idea of friendship. He is goofy yet serious, adventurous yet stable.”

I loved him abstractly, in a way that exalted his potential qualities. “He will make a good father. His dedication to work will surely result in success. If ever I became famous, how grand he would look on my arm!”

I loved him hopelessly, in a way that examined his face, his body, his lifestyle, and thought, “Me? He picks me?” A love that verged on desperation, which felt itself doomed to loss and desperately feared to lose.

I loved him egotistically, reveling in the positive qualities his shining eyes reflected back at me. Spritely, intelligent, witty, creative. “She’s a charmer, she is, the most beautiful girl in the room. Easy to be around. One stepping-stone away from screaming success.” That vision of me—I loved him for creating that. And yet…

I loved him for many reasons, but I never loved him quietly, simply, unripplingly, nor he toward me.

And that love—the soft love—never came.