Eric Forbes

A blogger I follow posted this poem this morning, with Spanish thrown in for good measure:

it sounds romantic (by glitteringsootonhereyelashes)

morir:
it sounds romantic,
rose petals scattered on a bed, or floor,
before
you ravish me
or before i ravish you.

y parece me muero
with your fingers running through my hair.
i wouldn’t have it any other way.
si: eso es.

I had to brush up on some Spanish, but once I did, the piece lit up for me. “Rose petals scattered… you ravish me” coupled with the foreign sense of death and dying. Such a romantic scenario, consuming the ever-present moment until it too, changes tense and dies.

And such is romantic love. I can be consumed by it, obsessed and taken over by it. I lose myself and my center. I become horizontal, ellipted, reaching too far over to one side, compromising the core of my being. As I see this from the outside, looking in, re-presenting what I thought I experienced then, again, and sometimes again, I initially get hooked on the drug I didn’t know I was taking.

I get so used to the feeling of being wanted, loved, and needed that I lose myself in the world when this outer relating changes shape or comes to an end. So there has to be a better way. While I will always cherish romance, it can’t be my sole focus, my everything. That’s out of balance, and inherently unstable. It’s like a cam, a wheel with one side chopped off, spinning and yet throwing everything out of alignment. It vibrates. Just as romantic, sexual love vibrates through me when it’s turning.

And when it’s not? I’m wanting for the maligned vibrations. I want them more than I ever did. Once the numbness wears off, I realize how much I counted on it being there, turning, burning, shimmying and shaking itself and me. How I smiled the whole time! How I knew this was the one! And yet, I’ve been through this before, haven’t I? I’ve loved so hard it hurts and still keep loving, with idle periods in between best reserved for tending to my emotional wounds. Heartache? Screw heartache. My whole being aches when it ends, and yet, I don’t exactly die.

##

Changing tense,
not making sense.
What seemed so durable,
is now moot, unspeakable.

Just saying this makes me
tremble with fear.
My emotional idiocy,
my blind faith in you.

I crumble when I
think of you.

I used to think of you
every time I breathed.

At least, I used to.