Everyone Wants a Love Story

Life is what happens all around:
it cannot be precluded:
the conversation with an ill parent,
as they discuss their last will
and testament on death’s door,
that argument that transpired
when he resurfaces, when he returns
home later than he pledged,
choosing a fight so you are guilty,
betrayed by his lazy propaganda,
or the unsavory credit card statement,
the one that arrives with unidentified
purchases, made from your lover,
to a seemingly worthy other.

Everyone wants a love story,
the kind that curls flimsy toes
and weakens knotty knees,
but it is never the cowardly case,
the indentured details emblazoned
in the precipices of folded skin,
burning you, no searing your lips shut.

What does anyone gallantly grasp
about supple tenderness?
To absolve and blatantly disregard,
one would require their memories
to be erased, evaporated,
into salty air and endless indigo nights.
Love is the paltry price you pay
for an obtuse opportunity that leads
to shattered dreams and melted moments.
It exists with a hefty penalty attached.

Remember that honeymoon chapter
when rhapsody and splendor
overwhelm the stubborn senses?
That, alas, descends too. Yes,
it lapses into dissolving remembrances
and sugared whispers. The true
totality is that we, as imperfect creations,
are simply more intricate than the sum
of out parts. We mean no harm
until there are rusty ramifications
for random neglect and stilted lies.
Welcome to the seasons’ fickle reality.

Everyone wants a love story.
I wispily yearn for that too.
We just have forgotten how to love.

(C) Michael Wayne Holland, 2012