There had been women.
Some of them
said they loved me.
I guess some of them
I even loved,
but I had never
fallen in love
until I was
nearly fifty years old
She seemed perfect.
We met at a freaky
little hippy church
downtown and she was
sunshine, she was fire.
I asked her if
she would let me
write love for her,
smiling she said
yes to me and
I gave her my heart.
On Tuesdays we would
paint in plate glass light
and listen to music
and sometimes our
fingers would touch
or she would tussle
my hair and I would
be drunk from her
presence. I fell in love
with her in that way
that only the most
foolish hearts can know.
When she was through
with me I wanted to die,
and others could see it,
people waited for it to
happen in that peculiar
way that morbid racecar
fans wait for mortal crashes.
But I didn't kill myself,
there was no need,
for having known the
elation of falling deeply
in love like that then
having it snatched
away was like
not being alive
anymore. Suicide
would just be redundant.
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