A Poem of Melancholy

What has it been since I realized I loved you?  A year? Two? Does it matter?
My heart beats to a rhythm which matches only yours.

And every time I feel like I could love another, your face appears on theirs.  And I am yours.

Only, you are not mine.
You are so far from my grasp, the realization of our love is impossible.
It is simply my love.
My love reflecting off of an endless sea of dashed hopes, and dreams, and seagull shit.

And the lake?  The lake that day, in the sun, our feet in the cold water.
Our faces in the cold water.  My bathing suit falling off, and your hands around my neck.
But I was safe.
The elements against us, and we were safe.

But it was not enough.  Or I was too much.  But either way, the quantities could never add up.  Nothing was 100%

It was wrong.  Did it not feel wrong to you?  I wanted it, though it felt wrong to me too.

And with every Nickelback and Spill Canvas and Taking Back Sunday song, indeed with every song, I hear our life, our love, our words, our arguments play back to me.  I hear us conquering and failing battles.  I hear fights, and frowns, and good memories all jumbled together. Like the tornado that stole away Dorothy.

Only it stole away passion, love, acceptance.  It stole away happiness: mine.  And though it felt as right as wrong – to me – you could not be swayed.

Which is fine.  Because then…you would not be the one I fell in love with.

But it hurts.  Even now.  Can we speak?  Can I hear your voice?  Can you torment me still? I would live for that, die for that.  I miss your face, your laugh, your smile – even your judgment.
I miss being perverse and having secret desires.

Now there is only a desire overburdened with a profound and infinite sorrow.

Psychologists think they invented things like depression and split personality disorder.
But before that there was melancholy and broken hearts, and love.  And things that  created a craziness no pill could fix.  And writers, and artists, and composers discovered these first.
And pulled out the infinite sorrow and turned it into words, and pictures, and sound.

And this art had the ability to break hearts and transcend time.  As can love.

No science can build or break down that.  We were here first. Creating, thinking, journaling, painting.  We were breaking hearts, spilling words, bending minds, melting time, and most importantly having our own hearts broken, our own hopes dashed against the jagged rocks of rejections, death, despair.

I miss you.  Come back to me.  Don’t let me die alone.  I want to stop trusting, believing hoping.  But then how would I be able to experience this pain that I crave.  I crave in place of you?

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