The cynical side of me has a take on how many young romantic relationships seem to go. |
I might add to the genres "satire" and "emotional" as well. I am a twenty-something in love, but something in me demanded I write a poem about romance that wasn't all mushy gushy. There seems to be a tendency to treat young love with a kind of sacredness, even if it's outright called "puppy love". I suppose that may be good and right, but observation from my (sizable) cynical side brought forth this poem- with attempts at hints of humor and emotion- about the difference between simple young love and true love (of whatever age, including young). Young Love Thumbs hooked through jean belt loops, pulling her to you. You kiss. Over and over again, you kiss: so many quick little pecks in a row. I hope you don't kiss your mother like that, but is SHE your mama bird? It's like you take nourishment from her kisses. Is she dropping food into your mouth? So greedy, can't get enough. Of her time, either. The odd purity that comes from being complemented for the first time this way. How she leans against your knee, she's the missing puzzle piece. The crook of her neck, there, just there. The pressure where she uses you for a chin rest. During any violent-as-you-wish T.V. show and she'd even be cool to chill with you when you're with your bro's. Though alone time is the best. All that you could ask for, through hills and valleys you ride along. Everything is smooth and firm, smooth and firm. Smooth, no hiccup in the road. Firm is the belief in the reliability of the course. They're hot; the heat rushes through them, complete. Ain't never gonna feel this way again. Not with anybody else. You two could lie in bed all day. We're making relationship flambe. A secret recipe of inside jokes and somebody finally wanting your ingredients, lit afire by some mystery combustible. You'd deny 'til you were hoarse that it's only flash in the pan. Until one day, it seems like- how can you have all these shared memories, all this love, yet it's still as if the person standing there is barely the same person from before? No more pulling her frontward or backward by her belt loops, always pulling her toward the pulse of your passion. But the beat of love's life, at least, grows faint, and she threatens to take you out with it. He'd seen her raise the gun, for all the good it did. A bullet hole in his forehead And it's like his third eye's crying blood. He didn't want to see what he saw too long ago. And he just delayed their misery. Do you take your meat rare? This cut's dripping in disillusion, the animal neutralized, a dead bag of blood and bones. No; you're still all-too human, though. Alone in a room, it's all you can do to remember to breathe. But that's step one. |