It was sometime around the pandemic, when I stepped out of myself and saw what I needed the most. A Love Divine. The kind of love that comes and goes, and keeps you company for a short while, while you both watch the ships sailing by, and talk of government intrusion, killer music, and where to find the best beer.
Psst. I like stout.
Don’t stay too long. Don’t outlive your welcome. A timer goes off in my head before the awkward pauses and you repeat your sentence for the third time.
It’s time to leave, now, Carol, while they still like you. Roses and unicorns. Nothing messy. They can’t see your bed, or get close enough to see your mustache, smell your soiled diapers. (You haven’t changed them in two days, come on.)
Step lightly. Move away. Make new friends. Only be there when they need you the most, to fill in the gaps, fill up the time.
It’s for your own good, for everyone’s sake.
Humming bird, humming bird, why are your wings so fast and so iridescently green, like emeralds on mountains under a second sun?
“World beneath worlds. This one’s not for you.”
If I love you, I stay. For just a little while. Before love turns to hate. It’s just my way. Because my parents didn’t know better than to torture me with what they never had.