The Tempo is Slow

Can I admit something pessimistic
And quite frankly fatalistic?
No one comes close to stealing my heart away.
The churchgoers keep preaching about the ultimate idyllic love.
The romantics keep knocking on the doors of the suffering to say it only hurts because there is a deep joy hidden in the muscles of the heart.
This poem isn’t about you.
It’s about how Love stowed away their beautiful sweetness in other rooms
And all I had was imagination to feel its pulse in my life.
Now the secrecy is
I have grown so long without it
In bedrooms with half assed lovers
And false fair boyfriends.
I seemingly don’t need it’s divine presence.
Instead the fire of my heart churns
On the platonic
On the way you smiled
On the way she heard
And the way they danced.
Its hard to open up to anyone else
Because even an attempt to throw caution to the wind
Never brings anyone close.
So when I see friends after years of pilgrimage elsewhere
I don’t think I will be saddened by no arm to share life with.
I have always thought I was better off
And still instinctively in a small gaping crevice of my perilous thoughts
I wish someone would prove me wrong.

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