Why They Call It Falling
Someone please push me, so I gain momentum. What
has appeared to be so effortless, that “something” that
has developed between you and me, protons reacting
to electrons, that makes the you and me, the we.
It’s magical, fantastical, an elixir for love, filled with
all of love’s complexities and love’s frailties. I watch as we
fall into a feather bed, ether if you will, supporting us
so we become aware of both inner and outer worlds.
I feel both calm and fluttery, living in shades of silver layers
and translucent dreams, a reluctance for being accepted and loved.
Nagging tapes play in the back of my head, the ones
that are no longer pertinent, the ones pushing buttons,
pulling me down just below the surface, the undertow,
lying to the world again, again, again, revealing sordid, rancid
past remembrances, so I think, as to why I will never will be
good enough, so much so, that although my head truth knows
better, my heart truth grows wary.
“You never were good enough, so you will never be good enough.
You’re diseased. Recovery is an impossibility from the trauma
that was chosen for you. Just for you!”
So my face smacks down hard against harsh pavement, everything
growing grey. It’s almost best to start over than try and fix what is
dilapidated. Damaged goods sear my soul. I try to cascade
upon a safe netting, that soft, secure, that sanctuary. I still cannot
fully accept with an entirely open heart, that appreciation
has been earned. I return to “I’m sorry”, aware that
each time I say it, no matter how many times I mean it,
it lacks the same amount of sincerity, punch, as it did previously.
And I do mean it. Besides, who am I apologizing to anyway? That I can’t
give you more? That I am paralyzed in fear? These shards
undermine what is true.
Time to suck up, return to bat, line up over first plate, and allow that
first pitch to hit in the winning run. For a time that works. That works.
Just fine.
