Just once
Just once in life’s
crazy, mixed up mess
I want to know it,
feel it, deep and full;
like breathing, all rich;
filling me until I’m breathless
Just once
Just once for love’s
crazy tenderness
I want to taste it,
thick and salty, pure;
like sunshine, all warm;
covering me until I’m shakingly certain
Just once
Just once for real
brain, bone, and blood
I want to say I knew it;
free and true and well,
before all chance flown,
I’m still, in death, truly alone
—
Fresh from the moment, unpressed, unedited, and raw. It’s ridiculous that I send it to you when I feel so sure that, of all the things that may change between us given time, 2153 miles likely isn’t on the list but for a moment here and there; a weekend or a holiday at best.
But it’s no more ridiculous than the reality that I’ve lived 44 years waiting; or that I’m no less hopeful of it. It feels ridiculous, you know. I often feel quite stupid, silly even. I imagine some deity chuckling on a cloud or a mountain or wherever they recline these days and pointing me out to the stars or perhaps their attendants, “See? Look there, that’s the one I was telling you about; the one who is too stupid to realize it’s not for her.” You want to know the funniest part? The saddest part? It hurts the most when there’s a possibility. Does that sound odd? I don’t know if I can explain it, but it’s like being torn in two. Half so hopeful and reaching and the other, foot nailed to the floor and screaming because it knows beyond all doubt that it’s not really a possibility, just another whisper that is going to waft and drift away.
Where is the man who will be tender? Who is he who would truly cherish, embrace, and nourish? Who would remember special days or make a day special just because he felt like it? Where is he who would care more for a smile than a speedboat; spend weekends in bed and giggle like a little boy with an equally silly little girl? Where is the man who actually knows that all it takes to be “the one” or have “the one” is being more willing to say it is so than less willing? Who is the man who would keep me safe enough that I could finally be soft; for him, for myself, for the world?
Is it stupid to be so certain it is possible, yet? Is it stupid to be willing to tend an empty garden so it might still be capable of growth? It does not feel stupid, but then, I suspect no stupidity is known as such; so I ask. Which, of course, is the ultimate stupidity because no matter what answer you give me, you cannot give me any answers. I have to give them to myself. Still, I ask, because sometimes, when I cannot convince myself, it helps to have someone’s words to use until I can find my own; it helps to have the care of another so I can remember why I still want to, really need to care; both for myself and for others; to remember why I bother remembering hope at all.
I do remember, enough to write; I do hope, enough to struggle. But it sure would be nice to hear someone else say they know this feeling and I’m not as alone as I feel with it.
Can you do that? More importantly, would you? For me?