Pablo Neruda wrote,
“Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.”
“Tonight I can write the saddest lines.”
He must have shared my disposition.
Reading that verse my whole Being said,
“Yes, me too. I can write the saddest of lines.”
I suffer in love,
each day waking up to not enough.
Never tasting authenticity without pain.
Smelling a flower
while bleeding all over its thorns.
He must have known those nights
where the tears are fire in the chest,
the sobs in disheveled breaths.
Death so close and yet so far.
Living just to die.
Dying because I loved for love’s sake
and yet never finding safety
for longer than a moment.
Torn from the arms of forever
by falsehoods and my stupid expectations.
Laughter hollowed out by the memories of broken promises.
He must have known,
that sometimes living has to be done for others
just to get yourself through a Monday.
I may wear the rope forever,
but I do not climb the chair to hang it.
Instead I write the saddest of lines,
hoping that my cup will never overspill
if I just empty my heart now and again