I wanted to write a poem. That’s what I promised her. But it seems that I am too overwhelmed to write a poem at the moment and therefore.
After a very long time, I come close to love in the words of another woman I interact for the very first time. Eason Chan clears my heart covered with a storm of dead leaves. I say that strangers can turn into invisible cities at the touch of Calvino and I explain to her that being gifted the Invisible Cities is a caterpillar begging a blacksmith to flatten the setae into wings so you can fly. When she talks about love, I feel as if it is me. She talks about Mr Palomar referring to keeping things whole, and I connect the dots drawing over the two, the poem by Mark Strand.
I want her to feel amazing, to feel beautiful and strong. I want to see her grow in this moment because when I was in love, I squandered every bit of it trying to hold on to something so ephemeral. Of course, I found myself a nutritional supplement; I have my pup wanting to rest on my shoulder.
Really, I never felt so enthusiastic about someone’s love. I was so full of appreciation for her talking about love and how she feels so different. I persuade her to make love as she would breathe. I tell her not to think of the future or the past, just contain in the moment’s bell jar. See, here it is the bell jar still waiting for Plath’s return. I left Plath a long time back, that’s what I told Dustin when he drew a comparison of one of my poems with Plath’s.
I tell her that it should be such that I get to blame you for living a perfect love, albeit in disturbed atmospheric pressure. No, I don’t tell her so. I am not Sexton; I am Linda, so fallible and coward of death that despite every self-assurance, I blame the knife for getting hard on my skin.
The two will be in a poetry class now. They don’t sit together to prevent any visual discomfort. They will be poems. They will be lit, and they will be love. At my end, I feel like a witch basking in the warmth of their intimacy. I want the whole world to be in love because these brief hours wither too fast. I wait for her to come back and tell me her story. In life, I don’t want love overhead; I want it as passive flu.