Monday, April 18, 2011

Pretty Things: A Poem

With a tough weekend under our belt we didn't have much to write about, and we still don't, except the past; which works for us since anytime we can gather a memory and get it down on paper, we are that much closer to whatever it is we are supposed to be getting closer to.

Following this entry, with luck, we will be done writing specifically about FNA, he will be referenced when we start compiling our recent history, to make sense of what has happened in the past year or more; but he is now part of our past, he has chosen no future in our life. So, unless we create more poetry to deal with the loss of him - the final chapter of FNA ended with A Mistress With No Cutlery.

Saturday was our last day to talk to him about the things we needed to say, so we could looked him the eye when he told us the things we needed to hear, in hopes of seeing him as the terrible person we should see him as; which was a huge fail.

With tears accumulating, threatening to spill out onto the wooden table of the restaurant where we talked and drank for over four hours, he seemed to be amused over the anguish he should have been seeing, making us look off into the distance...

"Stop laughing at our pain" we pleaded to him.

His response was that he was not laughing at our pain; so what the fuck was he laughing at. 

People tell us we can do so much better, but love isn't about wanting to have something better - love is about loving, and wanting what it is that you love, feeling a need for it, because you cherish the "object" of your affection; despite it's broken or damaged parts, despite it's flaws, despite it' pretensions, despite everything that tells you "no".

Inspired by a quote, and a dream FNA shared in one of our last conversations with him this past week; we give you yet another poem in dedication to the fucker we stupidly fell in love with. 

As we tell him, and will tell you...the person we are mad it is not him - it is not his fault we fell in love - we knew the score going in, because he is a married man, and knew that there was no winning in this game. When we fell in love, we only hoped that there might be, a hope that in reality was just a wish

We are only mad at the We.

"A dream which is not interpreted is like a letter which is not read.” ~The Talmud

Pretty Dreams
Distracting yourself with pretty things,
even in your dreams;
Pretty squares of fabric, and pretty girls,
it seems.
Is it a dream, a reflection of reality;
your real life;
Those pretty things wanting you;
easily dismissing your wife.

(c) 2011 Franky Ly
If you like poetry, we have archived works. The tabs are at the top of this page. We've been writing poetry to deal with the pain and confusion, the love and anger, in our life for nearly two decades; we are 31 years old.

No comments:

Post a Comment