He stops sending her love songs in the morning. She buys silk stockings but only wears them to work. He flirts on Facebook. She would rather touch herself. Forgetting happens.
What are you waiting for?
The poets are all becoming incessant watchers of reality television. The artist's canvas remains blank. All the music played on the radio is auto-tuned, homogenized, safe.
How does loss happen?
It starts with a lie, small and white. I'm late because of traffic. I'm just too tired, baby. The old affectionate nicknames get tacked to the end of text messages to maintain the illusion of intimacy while bedrooms stay vacant. Or worse, the bedroom becomes a last bastion. He bends her body into right angles all the while thinking of being with someone else. She moans, but doesn't mean it. Nobody can be brave inside of detritus.
Bravery is necessary. Love requires risk. Frida Kahlo says, Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Yes. Fuck yes.
There is no alternative.
He stops sending her love songs in the morning. She buys silk stocking but only wears them to work. He flirts on Facebook. She would rather touch herself.
Do not stay inside forgetting. It is a cage.
When the heart is a wounded bird trapped in the bony prison beneath your rib bones, the feet are your escape. When there is a lack of love, leave. Even if it levels you. Go, because in the midst of that self destruction, you will find your grace.
