Like a rush-hour deluge, love arrived
where it shouldn’t. When we couldn’t.
Stirring up the normal. But love must
be Shakespearean: a costume drama,
poetry frothing at its mouth, selfish,
greedy, visceral. Always wanting more,
wanting so much more that nothing is
enough. Not even love. We’re raised
on happy endings. Even tragedies are
normalized as the best possible result,
given the odds. When love fails, we ask
if it was real. Seek existential assurance.
A real love should have destroyed the
lover when it left. Survival is proof of
what never was. The ledger of longing
is never tallied. The void is carried like
an abscess. Never absent. Never healing.
And yet these are just ordinary wounds.
Not worthy of even an ordinary story.
Do you think a fleeing comet is allowed
to fall in love with the moon? Do you
think the moon should listen to the sky?
Do you think Sisyphus should write a love
song for a nameless paramour who
helped him roll the rock uphill one night?