I’ve never been in love.
Not like how the poets scribble, the musicians sing,
we storytellers write bestselling novels about.
Infatuated, yes; blind, justice; obsessed, hungry.
I thought I loved my birthplace.
Rose coloured glasses and all that.
I left like a thief in the night,
Only it was day (that much I recall) –
An inauspicious Fourth of July,
Carrying passion that I thought was love in a bucket of water,
With a big fucking hole in the bottom.
In my youth, I saw all the signs.
I ignored them this time around,
Believing I was immune to it.
Immunity seems like a horrible way to explain it
And maybe there isn’t some sentimental way to define
Something that doesn’t deserve to be sentimental at all.
I am prepared to leave, two years older
Certainly not wiser because nobody is,
No amount of lying will comfort you
As this poem ends.
Loving is leaving a place you knew
A place where you shed tears
for the very atoms of your existence
As it beat your corporeal spirit into corn meal
Giving you a hide as durable as durian
– And maybe my insides smell like them too –
To be eaten by the birds tomorrow.
There will always be a tomorrow.