Poem: Love, for the moon.

Love, for the moon.

Why are you lonely, still?

You’ve got loving parents, siblings, a concerned and caring cousin.  A good-hearted therapist.

Why are you lonely, still?

Because I am lacking love.

Well, this love must carry a lot of weight then, mustn’t it?

It’s not that all other kinds of love in my life are unimportant. The goal in life is to be complete.  But there is a piece missing.  A piece of crusted diamond.  A piece of royal rarity for the gazes of others.  In that sense, in its scarcity (and with it, selfishness,) it carries weight.  But not in its kind.

I am lacking love.  The romantic kind; the sexual kind.  Merciless and addicting.

Where is it?  Where is it?  We all need it.

The moon needs it.  It must be lonely up there in the night sky; starts are distant.  The sun is a tease, a chase.

Clouds at night are indifferent to the moon.  The moon tries to give a show, like a cabaret for men busy-minded with detective work.  But clouds sweep right past it.  We see it in the underglow, like faces across a running train.  A rush of dingy blur. 

But love. 

Love is carried where this cloud lies,

Clouds are God’s spies.

A thousand holy eyes.

The moon is lonely.  It looks for drunken lovers who are drunken in… what? An instinct?  A drive?  A liquid procured by a touch or two in the right moment?

But even the drunken lovers are teases, a chase.  They are the sons and daughters of the sun, precluding dawn (toddlers often wake before their parents.)  With their unzipped zippers and rising skirts – not always together in that fabricated combination. Not always the same act.

A cat’s meowing, a depressed violin.  The alcoholic beverage for the moon; its own sacred choosing.

Love, where is it?  Where is it?  We all need it.

It’s all over the world, but we can’t see it.  We’re taught in school that love is a concept and that concepts can’t be touched, but only spoken of and felt.

Touched: a finger in the air, searching for the wind, a tumbleweed of thought.

Felt:

groping and scuffling

in bed.  Hands and tongue and lips. 

Flushed skin.  That’s felt.

It’s all over the world but we can’t see it.  The word here is abound.

We’re all playing a game.  Didn’t you know?  A game of Hide-and-Seek.  Our turn is the seekers.  Love is hiding.  It is where dirt is mistaken for shadows.  Or where dirt is being protected under the fingernails of children playing tag.  You’re it. Love is under rocks and old-timing hearts.  The hearts of your lovers who sail with the seconds.  Love is in the hours that keep you company at night when sleep is painfully out of touch.  Love is in your thoughts, your poor heart.

The moon is very lonely.  Love is the bridge between it and your bedroom window, mixing with the dust in the night air.  While the crickets chirp and your mother wails in her sleep.

Love is fastened, like a seatbelt.  Fastened at the hips.  Being moved by a speeding car.

It is, after all, nothing but a search when all you’ve got is a small headlamp. 

In a room full of gold, but it’s raining outside of this cave.

Love doesn’t know your name.  It’s got no time for that.  Love picks up speed with the winds of hurricanes, and leaves destruction.  Love is merciless.  It is the “Blind Assassin.”

Destruction.  Another concept.  A synonym for success.  Just as entrances and exits are synonyms.  Birth and death, the same.

Love is a success?  Being loved means being successful.  But love succeeds you and your life.  Love is the “Blind Assassin,” working for eternity. 

The Fountain of Youth does not compare.  It is a fountain of some rocky material, flooded with dirty water that has been touched by the hands of many.  More importantly, being forever young is just as much a tease as the sun and the drunken lovers are.  It is a joke, a scam.  A mean misanthrope that wheezes, bereft.

No.  Love is all, as all is love.

Even loneliness.