The Door is Open

Bittersweet longing, wanton, unrequited. 

Potent yearning brimming with hope. 

There is a shard of promise 

in that hope, 

like glass it shines 

and like glass it cuts. 

We can live a long time on hope alone, 

empty fuel, delusion made truth by power of imagination. 

Crazy in love, but . . . . still . . . . there is hope. 

And should our reaching hand find friendly fingers intertwined, 

the heart skips a beat, 

a bar, 

the heart skips with delight. 

Then there is the loving, 

the falling, 

the fooling, 

the sticky extrication. 

Every rose loses it's fragrance to rot.

In regret bitter knows no sweet. 

Better then to live in hope without risking loss,

or to suffer the torture of longing fulfilled?

But what of the other love, 

so pure, so complete,

so very much so there is no need to compete?

My heart sings in simply knowing. 

I celebrate your freedom,

offer you a golden cage

with no door. 

The space you may never visit again, 

holy by your absence, 

because that hole bears your shape. 

Memory of you a silent song. 

The sun dims in awe and stars cluster to adorn your dreams. 

Dreams dream of you, and I with them. 

What makes the difference then between these types of love? 

Heaven and hell inhabit the same coin, 

is it the chance of the toss, 

is it the hand of Fate that decides?

I wish I knew. 

How I wish I knew.