Too often, my dear

Too often, my dear, I look to you for inspiration;
for completeness, satisfaction, healing.
And I find it for a moment at the start;
the pure joy of a new beginning,
the insatiable need to touch, to feel, to protect,
the irrepressible want to lose yourself: to have the world
outside your door, not wanting to be in it.
To want a different kind of food,
and enjoy knots in the stomach.

And then the past rises up to haunt the present,
and promises that this time will be different
made in vain. Romance crushed
by the reality of this world and the
fallibility of all who dwell here; where rain is
not a baptism but a cold dose of the truth.
You, my dear, can never fulfill me but I will always
come back for more, doomed
in a cycle of ups and downs,
yet somehow blessed by the experience
that can never not be a part of me;
Though dead, in me it lives forever.

The knots of desire come untwined;
they twist up again with the fire of resentment and doubt,
a sign of the end of something not meant to last, something
felt in the stomach and the heart; two hearts
afraid and unable to wrap it aloud in words.
It just dies, as all things must.
Too often, my dear, I have looked to you and made myself a burden.
Too often, I look back and feel pain and blessing.

The pure joy of a new beginning -- that it could only be beginning forever.

Originally written and posted 8/8/11