When summer is over, and the morning chill stands close by. And the years should be counted, even though they slip slower. And faster. Because the heaps of memory build up the pressure. Time, remembrance, meaning, waste. When had the yester turned into being. The now, the will, are losing their luster. Because too many minutes are tallied for death.
When longings have faded, and sentiments wander. On the quieter side of the stained breakfast table. Coffee can be sweet and bitter and heartburning. He can’t remember what he likes any more. But that doesn’t matter. The sun is still rising. He wakes up and stares. The sun will be setting. And the tire is flat.
When minds have moved on and can’t hear the rhythms. That strum strum the heart from the tiniest breath. Worn cotton couches pressed deep with their holding. Their giving. Their living. Their glossy gazed song. She’s deaf to a cough in the night anymore. And they won’t know the life that was fed to her young.
When the taken is gone. And the more disillusioned. Questions are silent, because, what’s the point. Where cancer is faithful and a lover can’t stay. The days blow away as we mistake them for mountains. To climb, to be crushed, to hide from the thunder. But the days blow away. Until we are bold enough, comfortable enough, unhappy enough, bored enough, to ask if it’s worth it.
Love doesn’t work. But sometimes it does. Sometimes it answers, it means, it believes. It’s the ultimate striving for living and dying and meaning and reason. When it works.
But sometimes it doesn’t. It leaves, it demands, it kills, and it buries. And it taunts you to wonder, what it was to begin with. Is love loving me, or have I created a love that will work. Because love isn’t working. Or am I not working. Hard enough. For love.
Love is the answer. That is the illusion.
When love doesn’t work. It endures.