It’s a pleasure;
to love you like my heart is conducive to phenomenal pain,
and to mourn like recovery will eventually unfold
Calibrating the rose tints of my glasses,
I choke on the colors I couldn’t afford
But,
It is a pleasure. Indeed.
What else is to be lost?
We have lost possibilities, maybe a million of them.
Few years.
Strands of black hair, here and there
Some lovers and some stories
But, it’s a pleasure.
Yesterday, the sky fell into the ocean
and I couldn’t tell what was what.
Both blue. Both agile. Both trapped.
You see, this is what happens
when love falls into hands that are too full,
that they can’t hold all of you
You can’t tell what is what
What is pain. What is love.
Both wholesome enough to hold on
So, I do.
It’s a struggle. A constant struggle.
But, it’s a pleasure.
