Healing
I love you like the first day of autumn when the ancient, whispering winds take their flowing steps across the yet-blossoming riverbanks near where I grew up. The long-robed scribes of the past carried a chisels and tablets, prepared to inscribe the names of those who would not see another spring. They call the river home of these scribes "Kiskiminetas" - "willow tree". Sturdy and as somber as that tree, you have grown into my life and your medicinal foliage eases the pain which I, so often, allow to blind me. Those haunting autumn winds swing through the branches of your heart and play an eerie song that I once sang. That first day of autumn is you.
I love you like the crisp, unsoiled snows of a January's high-noon. Cold blankets lay across the fields of my youth and smother out the weak and unprepared. Nature's finest textile, this fabric is soft yet impossible - like the root of tree, tender enough to draw water in and powerful enough to crack sidewalks. I was born into this blanket, but find little comfort in its coverage. You surround me, engulf me, consume me, and smother me. In your depths, my heart can only turn to solid ice and my happiness fades to a frigid, shivering remnant. You seem, to me, endless and unrelenting and I can only hope for the salvation of the sun. That January high-noon is you.
I love you like the first blossoms of the tiger lilies I grew as a teenager. Firey tongues of orange spit from a tender mouth of green, lapping up every bit of sunlight and devouring any warmth. Craving the taste of their own life, they slept a deep slumber each night in anticipation of the next day's meal. Cruel and unruly, spring often eluded the voracious mouths, snapping its cold whip at the desirous palates. Recoiling on themselves, the young explorers would be deterred and would open more slowly the following day. You, too, have felt the seemingly blind rebuke of an untimely word, an unwanted situation and now fear to reach out for warmth and affection. I see the fear in your eyes - you are more afraid of happiness than of loneliness. Those first blossoms are you.
I love you like the suffocating humidity of my Pittsburgh July. Choking me as I walk, destroying my hair, making it difficult to see, the fine mist that veils this city is caustic and threatening. Often, I wonder if I might drown - if the very air I breathe could turn to liquid and release a deluge that no one could survive. Thick and heavy with pollen, dirt, sweat, blood, tears, mildew, mold, and fear, the stifling spray hangs in the air like the curtain to the inner sanctuary - impenetrable and immobile. I cannot escape and fear for the worst. You invade my lungs and my breathing almost ceases when I think of the absence of the wind of your words. My consciousness begins to flee me as I can no longer nourish my mind with the sweetness of your presence. This saturating awkwardness threatens my very existence. That suffocating humidity is you.
As surely as I have memorized the four seasons of my world and their traits, I have memorized the sound of your voice and the marks of your body. I love and hate you much in the same way I love and hate those seasons - without expectation. No longer can I dream of your love because you are no more capable of loving me than the weeping willow can hold back the winds. Cold winter snows will sooner boil the land than you will allow me to warm you. It would be easier for the spring lilies to predict the weather than it would be for you to return my affection. Plagues of dampness will turn to dry dust before I will be allowed entrance into your heart.
I stood at the altar, awaiting your vows. Instead, you blindfolded me and lead me to the guillotine. They are the same to me, however - places of prayer. I do not ask the heavens for vengance tonight, nor reciprocity.
If you will not let me love you, nor love me in return, I only ask for my heart to be healed.
I love you like the crisp, unsoiled snows of a January's high-noon. Cold blankets lay across the fields of my youth and smother out the weak and unprepared. Nature's finest textile, this fabric is soft yet impossible - like the root of tree, tender enough to draw water in and powerful enough to crack sidewalks. I was born into this blanket, but find little comfort in its coverage. You surround me, engulf me, consume me, and smother me. In your depths, my heart can only turn to solid ice and my happiness fades to a frigid, shivering remnant. You seem, to me, endless and unrelenting and I can only hope for the salvation of the sun. That January high-noon is you.
I love you like the first blossoms of the tiger lilies I grew as a teenager. Firey tongues of orange spit from a tender mouth of green, lapping up every bit of sunlight and devouring any warmth. Craving the taste of their own life, they slept a deep slumber each night in anticipation of the next day's meal. Cruel and unruly, spring often eluded the voracious mouths, snapping its cold whip at the desirous palates. Recoiling on themselves, the young explorers would be deterred and would open more slowly the following day. You, too, have felt the seemingly blind rebuke of an untimely word, an unwanted situation and now fear to reach out for warmth and affection. I see the fear in your eyes - you are more afraid of happiness than of loneliness. Those first blossoms are you.
I love you like the suffocating humidity of my Pittsburgh July. Choking me as I walk, destroying my hair, making it difficult to see, the fine mist that veils this city is caustic and threatening. Often, I wonder if I might drown - if the very air I breathe could turn to liquid and release a deluge that no one could survive. Thick and heavy with pollen, dirt, sweat, blood, tears, mildew, mold, and fear, the stifling spray hangs in the air like the curtain to the inner sanctuary - impenetrable and immobile. I cannot escape and fear for the worst. You invade my lungs and my breathing almost ceases when I think of the absence of the wind of your words. My consciousness begins to flee me as I can no longer nourish my mind with the sweetness of your presence. This saturating awkwardness threatens my very existence. That suffocating humidity is you.
As surely as I have memorized the four seasons of my world and their traits, I have memorized the sound of your voice and the marks of your body. I love and hate you much in the same way I love and hate those seasons - without expectation. No longer can I dream of your love because you are no more capable of loving me than the weeping willow can hold back the winds. Cold winter snows will sooner boil the land than you will allow me to warm you. It would be easier for the spring lilies to predict the weather than it would be for you to return my affection. Plagues of dampness will turn to dry dust before I will be allowed entrance into your heart.
I stood at the altar, awaiting your vows. Instead, you blindfolded me and lead me to the guillotine. They are the same to me, however - places of prayer. I do not ask the heavens for vengance tonight, nor reciprocity.
If you will not let me love you, nor love me in return, I only ask for my heart to be healed.