What can I say of love
Of her beauty
Of the smile from those blue cobalt eyes
Of the mischievous turning away
Of the nickname she called me,
“Hide Your Head,”
Because I ducked away often
From that piercing gaze.
It was the shortest and the truest love
Of my life.
I do not care that they called her a psychopathic liar
I do not care that she destroyed my car’s engine in a fit of pique
At me leaving on vacation without her.
Pouring water deliberately in the carbeurator,
Then, astonishingly, getting back in the car.
Much as I would have preferred her asking me not to go.
I do not care that she left and spent her life with another.
When I think of beauty and love, hers is the face which appears
And I judge myself the one who showed up unequal to the task
Of allowing that energy between us.
I hold her in no blame
Although many think I should.
It is a gift to have felt that even once in a lifetime
Even briefly.
And were I to go back, were I to have that chance again,
I would be bolder, more fearless,
Not less bold and more cautious.
When she said, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?
I don’t want to insult you with that term.”
I would say, “Yes!”
Instead of the reflexive, self-hating, sarcastic,
“Well by all means don’t use that word if you find it insulting.”
I don’t know what I expected to come of that,
But I have not stopped regretting
My inability
To accept love
To celebrate it
To say a resounding “Yes” to whatever language it came in.
It was never that I thought she was not good enough, nor her words,
But that I believed I did not deserve
The loveliness, the indescribably beauty
Of this women who I met at 31, and said to myself,
That’s the face. That’s the one I’ve looked for my whole life.
That’s the one I’ve seen in my dreams.
soundandmountains 