Replica

genre: poetry

April 26, 2006

Letting go of you replicates the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I call it a replica because I’m still trying to figure out

How to break it to myself.

And in the meantime, my heart,

pumping and pumping,

Is thumping against that which is holding it back.

And my mind can’t resist:

It’s basking in the glow of your memory,

Drowning in the sweetness of a reverie,

Dreaming and meaning at the same time.

I will forever remember the curve of your lips.

My eyes will trace over and over

the outline of your silhouette.

Too clean to be a shadow,

And yet, all that remains of you is a puddle of gray.

A puddle of silent memories I cannot use anymore.

In this limbo that we call love

Waiting to get out,

Rushing to get in.

Where did it all begin?

Was that you first in line,

Or was it me?

This game that we call love-

This inexplicable,

Quite sensational,

You can try to blot out but will never erase-

A feeling no machine can ever trace

Completely.

Why do we do these things to ourselves?

Why do we bother with this force outside of ourselves

That intrudes the thickness of every wall we try to construct

Between us.

We can’t escape it.

So,

Let’s not pretend we don’t know why

Or how it all began.

It was so easy, falling into love.

If only falling out was not just as easy. (- April 26, 2006)

Hanging on to love…

I will hang onto it like it is life.

And it is.

And I cannot contain any part of me that wants to burst out-

Out of this cage you put me in,

Out of this box

In which only the present remains.

Tell me there is a future that is to be had:

Tell me all these years were leading up to something:

Assure me our love won’t amount to nothing.

Because in you, I see an original.

And in you, I recognize a mold

I will have to break when it’s gone.

And I,

can’t

help—

but break any heart that will try to fill it

when we’re through.

Are we all just replicas of ourselves?

Tiny sculptures running about-

No longer the giants that we once were,

Chips, and nicks, and bruise marks

Holding in the pain,

And fresh paint dipping its claws into our newly hollowed-out caves,

So that we never really know how we are feeling inside?

…the tears get lost with the gloss…

I want love to be more than a replica,

More than an example of model behavior.

I want to see a masterpiece in him, in us.

And when we get there,

When we find ourselves loving the original,

And letting everything else fall away:

When the paint bleeds

And the plaster chips,

When they were never there to begin with,

perhaps we will see the precious

and lose the ordinary,

see what we really have.

Love what we really have.

You wallow in your decision-making,

While I wait for you to see

That in the end,

It’s just me.

And it’s just you.

And the just thing to do

Is to keep our love

The way it has been.

Let’s not pretend we don’t know why

Or know how.

It was so damn easy falling into love.

If only falling out

wasn’t just as easy… (Finished September 15, 2006)

I’ve held back long enough

It’s time now to let go

My tears turned to rain

And my pride got lost in the snow.

All the waiting, anticipating

Killed my spirit

Destroyed my high.

I’m in a rut of monumental passion

That will only deepen when I die.

Under this weight of love and lust

Under this hate for you, not us,

I was waiting for you to save me,

And you killed me instead.

So here you are alone now.

Life is short.

Don’t spend it dead.

III

I shipped off a replica of me and you

On a little boat in a huge sea.

In my heart of hearts

We will return

In my dream of dreams.