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You truly hold the key to your prison
By imagining the door to the cell open
Love is the heart of the matter
The more you open your heart
Joy peace and love with reside
Bringing love and light to your soul
The birds are all a-building,
They say the world’s a-flower,
And still I linger lonely
Within a barren bower.

I weave a web of fancies
Of tears and darkness spun.
How shall I sing of sunlight
Who never saw the sun?

I hear the pipes a-blowing,
But yet I may not dance,
I know that Love is passing,
I cannot catch his glance.

And if his voice should call me
And I with groping dim
Should reach his place of calling
And stretch my arms to him,

The wind would blow between my hands
For Joy that I shall miss,
The rain would fall upon my mouth
That his will never kiss.
We meet like fire and water, bursting into steam
swinging round each other, splitting at the seams
our slowly growing entropy, sees darkness before death
the energy, no sympathy, clutches its last breath.

You fall into my watering eyes,
through dance we somehow stabilise,
the swell between the crashes of the ocean,
the moments underneath the motion.

The stable explosion.
This is how it feels when I see my Fiance.

She lives in Malaysia, I live in the UK, we see each other for about a month every 6 months.
I can't do love, not romantic love.
I know about 'that' kind of love
and it never ends well.

That's the kind of love where you get hurt
and there is pain and fear
and you're scared for you life.
And at 3am you're begging to live,
to live through just one more night
so that you can leave in the morning.

Quietly slip away.

And you can't call anyone to help
because the phone is smashed
and is somewhere in the garden..

I can't do 'that' kind of love again.
Because that **** damaged me,
damaged my heart.
It broke something deep inside,
and I can't fix it.
My heart is fragile
and it won't let me love again,
not like 'that'...

I can do friendship,
I can do that.
The kind where I can walk away
when I feel trapped
and I think you might hurt me.

And the only reason you will follow
is to ask if i'm okay
and if I want to share the cookies you made
because you made too many
and thought of me.

The kind of friendship where I can trust you,
just enough to hug you,
and you might let me take care of you
when you are sick.

The kind where I will always be there for you,
but you won't ask anything more from me,
you won't ask me to love you,
because you know I am giving you everything,
everything I have already.

I can do the kind of friendship
where I will give you the pretty button,
the one I found on the way home.
I will give it to you and insist that you keep it,
because it's beautiful,
like you.

The kind of friendship where I will make you
chicken soup when you are ill,
and softly stroke your hair
and sing you to sleep.
I will rub your feet when you are tired
and paint your toes. :o)

I will make you phone your Mum
and share my last chewing gum with you.
I will remember your birthday
and read you stories
and make you waffles.

I will listen to you tell me how your day was
and not interrupt.
I will support your decisions and respect your views.
I will let you have the tv remote
and write you notes in your lunch
with a picture of a weasel..
or something equally ridiculous.
Just so that you are happy.

I can do that.

But I can't do love...
not the kind I know about,
'that' kind of love never ends well.

And I want us to end well
or not end at all.

I can do friendship,
I can do that.

I can do that with you
for the rest of my life.
I still have a slightly twisted view of relationships,
what is healthy and what is not.
It's hard to unlearn ingrained behaviours.
But I don't think I will ever allow myself
to go through that again,
to fall in love...
if that's what it ever was.

Love?... nope.
Friendship?...  yes!
I can do that,
with a passion.
They keep telling me
No, yelling at me,
“For your wounds to heal,
You must stop touching them."

But Rumi told me,
“The wound is the place
Where the light enters you”

And I’m not sure if I ever
Wanted to heal in the
First place
I breathe in all shades of purple
and exhale in all shades of blue;
faded plums to cornflower petals—
a bruised kind of exchange
that makes you look up to the sky
and feel something for no reason.
A contusion I keep fresh for
whenever I let someone
close enough to press it.
And if the pain makes my skin
sing notes only my conscience can hear,
then I’ll write lyrics to match;
they'll say
*I’m alive.
I’m alive.
I’m alive.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016

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