Sometimes you need more than one more chance at love. Time after time, I chronicle these trials and errors in love on printed and digital pages. Our love languages build in stages. In the meantime, we might come undone struggling to make sense of their meaning. Hearts spill out garbled words that compose themselves into ambiguous sentences, manipulating syntax the way poets often do. Lover’s need a love dictionary to archive any moments of clarity.
This is an interactive game of chance and intent. We’re all in too deep, bass-baritone heartbeats and thunderstorms on our tongues when we speak. We spend too many years crying each other out whilst slyly holding on to their coat tails. Face to face, dry eyes sting from holding back the tears and accumulated emotions. We are cliff faces at the mercy of the restless ocean. We fold into each other, fall down and crumble. Why is letting go so difficult? Why is anything difficult?
Adversity can’t be the only birthplace of creative spaces. Adventures and misadventures are beyond the measure of any single moment. I am a chain reaction of thoughts, feelings and (mis)behaviour. I am a testimony of the love affair between the Universe and us. A pendulum of this human experience, raised by grace — trying to get right.
Sometimes we need more than one more chance to breakthrough, more chances to be less messy and obscene than the loveless marriages sold to us in magazines. The narrator becomes the muse, the voyeur in the shadows of a smoky bar — becomes the north star. If mercy allows, I become the poem — well lived. Let your feet run around the circles of my mind, trace my vertebrae with your fingertips and you might unlock my spine and witness me breakout into billions of butterflies.
Delete. Burn. Tear these words after reading and feel my heart bleeding. Scatter my pieces up to the sky, watch them rain down like confetti — celebrating another era of this life. Where do we go now? What do we do — and how?