A Simple Love

Of course, when she said she envied my

simple love I felt a sick pride,

content to be some sort of

paradigm of primitive tenderness

because I never let any woman

see my many moods.

Often my love was anything

but, and I knew we shared the same

simple loneliness saturated with

a girl’s grace, though I could

never admit to that

wallflower truth.

I wanted to tell her that

I felt an exigency each night to

write a poem because there was

no one to speak to. I wanted to

say that my days were marred by

a gray dust too, and

how much longer did we

have to wait to see a

silver light? I wanted to

confess that my handful of

love had turned into

sickness over time and

now: nothing, or almost

nothing, and that I

searched for that common

solace too.

But instead I stifled that

feeling and stranded it

somewhere in the soundless part

of my mind. And I

looked into her sad eyes, a

bonafide mirror of mine, and

thought that at least I was not

alone. And when I later thought of my

simple love—swooning and sick,

I wrote a poem for no one else but

us, hoping that

we would each find our

own way.