Passion is carefree, often buoyant.....breezy,
and is absolved perpetually of prohibitory rationality.
Being logged in to it for a little over eternity,
this is exactly how I have felt:
intense, steamy
...maybe a bit frenzied.
Passion is also a sudden, swift salvo.
On many a fleeting occasion, ergo;
I have come perilously close
to suggesting my maudlin ardor
and poetically propose
an incredible romance,
which if you dismiss;
shall break my heart in two
and if not;
shall break a home or two.
It is like this therefore,
that I have come to feel
like an outlawed fugitive
and as if in the wink of an eye,
a million lonesome nights have passed,
sorely bruising and tearing me apart
between the hearth and the heart.
Tonight:
the first one after those million;
I am transcribing my thought
to tell you that I am hooked,
as though in a playback loop -
a weary, age-old vinyl record;
pitching forward, skipping backward
in a pestering, irksome Xerox
of scratches, static and blips;
all in the same little sector
where there was once music.
❉
Maybe that is why I surprisingly realize
the pain of passion, and slowly capsize
into a drifting, dry sleep
devoid of all dreams
of you.
© Chandra S., 2013
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 7:15 PM UTC
Passion is carefree, often buoyant.....breezy,
and is absolved perpetually of prohibitory rationality.
Being logged in to it for a little over eternity,
this is exactly how I have felt:
intense, steamy
...maybe a bit frenzied.
Passion is also a sudden, swift salvo.
On many a fleeting occasion, ergo;
I have come perilously close
to suggesting my maudlin ardor
and poetically propose
an incredible romance,
which if you dismiss;
shall break my heart in two
and if not;
shall break a home or two.
It is like this therefore,
that I have come to feel
like an outlawed fugitive
and as if in the wink of an eye,
a million lonesome nights have passed,
sorely bruising and tearing me apart
between the hearth and the heart.
Tonight:
the first one after those million;
I am transcribing my thought
to tell you that I am hooked,
as though in a playback loop -
a weary, age-old vinyl record;
pitching forward, skipping backward
in a pestering, irksome Xerox
of scratches, static and blips;
all in the same little sector
where there was once music.
❉
Maybe that is why I surprisingly realize
the pain of passion, and slowly capsize
into a drifting, dry sleep
devoid of all dreams
of you.
© Chandra S., 2013