Love / Poetry.

Love is for people who are mad and sad and lonely and misunderstood. Love is for everyone who has ever hurt, and for everyone who ever…

Love is for people who are mad and sad and lonely and misunderstood. Love is for everyone who has ever hurt, and for everyone who ever will. Love is for those who cannot believe in, understand or quantify the idea of feeling; love transcends reason. Love is everything; that’s why it leaves you hollow. That’s why without it, you feel alone. That’s why you want it, crave it, need it, but can never quite have enough of it; you, I, we are only human. This is a universal trope: we cannot have it all.

Love is for the lost, and the found, and the somewhere in between.

Love is for everyone, if you let it be.

It hurts because it matters; like you, like me, emanating. My favourite words, plural, eclipse the singularity of subjectivity to become More, to become One, to become Everything and Nothing and always, resolutely Something. Matter, matter, matter: choice. The power of three; the power of one; the power of some. The littlest things mean the most.

Healing.

Human.

Resolution.

Words curling on, from, tongue, from mouth to chest and back again, washing over, under, unfurling, whirling, wordplay for the new generation, hashtag NOSHAME. Hiding, lying, same-old-sick-game. A thing of beauty may be ‘a joy forever’, but it doesn’t stay the same.

The rise and the fall; of desire, with desire, inevitable; and the emptiness. Accompanying, adjacent, ashes-to-ashes, chest-to-chest, ‘and they call this closeness’. The desolation of regret.

We live and we learn — or we try to.

We are born and we die — or we might do.

If youth is the enemy, we grow up at war.

We could love, but we don’t know how to.

We could try, but we don’t know where to start.

We were never taught, but we don’t know how to forgive.

We were never forgiven, but we don’t know how to forget.

But: the butt of all jokes, the root of all things, the inhibitor eclipsing.

So: the choice, the change, the growth, the strain.

Oh: begs the question. What do we do? Where do we go from here?

Circularity. The word “impossible” is paradoxical.

We must start as we mean to go on.

Now is as good a time as any.