The Hungry Artist

I entreated you to love me in so many different ways.

I entreated you to love me. In a roundabout way. When we stood on the edge of the ocean cliff, hugging our own bodies for warmth, staring into the sunset instead of each other’s eyes, I slipped my arm underneath yours, and you obliged.

When holding hands became as routine as breathing, I entreated you to love me by saying I love you. I said it first. And then I said it again. I said it in entirely different ways than I had said it to anyone before you. Still, you were not moved to say it in your own unique way. Instead, you grew weary and said:

Don’t say the same things over and over again, just as all lovers
do, for they imagine they will win love over with their use of
many words.

So then I made each of my many words count:

Interlace your fingers with my toes
and gently nudge my sleepy feet

Slip through my slamming door
all wrapped in a blanket for two

Stick around longer than my cat’s nine lives

Love me
Do.

And you did.

When my dreams became too lucid and I called you in the middle of the night, you came over and draped your body over mine. That kept the strange shadows circling my bed from reaching me.

I had discovered a poetry that never repeats. And just when my choice of words won your love over, my love grew weary:

When you send me
a dozen roses,
I will place them in
a can of peach juice,
and they will drown
in sweetness before their time.

Don’t love me.
Don’t.

But sometimes words are not enough, and you are still here, loving me.

(Excerpt poem from “Myths & Meditations”)