How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee for the swish and breeze and chill My skin can feel, when sun has scorched my will For the end of Winter and ideal Climes. I love thee to the level of a thermostat’s Rock-bottom low, by fans and phase conversion. I love thee coolly, as men strive for Night; I love thee calmly, as they turn from Light. I love thee with a heat, so quickly drowned In rain’s sweet downpour, and o’er evaporator cores. I love thee with a love that never burns With your old vents, —- I love thee for the leap, Of faith in winds that give me life! —- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after sleep.
A few days ago I woke up in the ICU at the hospital. My eyes opened to the cold, white ceiling constructed of projecting geometric shapes. And my first thought was that I wanted to go home.
The first thought I remember ever having was that I wanted to go home.
The problem is that home doesn’t exist unless you create it, or unless someone creates one for you, and I’ve never had that experience. It is as abstract a concept as infinity or eternity. Or death. Yet it is still my first thought and my last: I just want to go home.
You held the key to an invisible box; You did not know it, perhaps? What was inside, I cannot tell you; I did not know it, perhaps? You threw it away without caring; But I felt it when you did. The pain was unexpected; Your power, you felt it then. I was unsure how to react; And then I remembered… that I know how to forget.
I have become a hollow shell, A body where a being used to dwell. Things that seemed real just months ago, Are now mere shadows on the snow. No room for passion or delight, Just boredom, apathy and fright. The die is cast, the pattern set, But I’ll no longer take the bet. From human eyes I always hide, A random pixel cast aside.
This happens to me quite often — for a short while or forever — I lose all ability to write. Not when it comes to work; I suppose, but when it comes to expressing myself. Like the example below, for instance; it represents something remotely like what I want to say, but neither has metric consistency, nor any other valuable attribute that I can imagine:
(And I’m only posting it because lately I’m too busy to “tweet.”)
Two random hearts collide and intertwine, A blind embrace that feels at times divine, Like purest cocaine or the finest wine, Yet love’s a tumor that is not benign.
One heart will worry that the union’s wrong, The other will attempt a grasp that’s far too strong, And even if together they, in truth, belong, The passion’s embers may not last as long.
And so the symptoms of withdrawal begin, But who’s to blame you that you let the wrong one in? The one whose feelings are, alas,* becoming thin, Will leave, despite dreams of what could have ever been.
*You know you’re desperate when you resort to the use of “alas.”