“Who was it that thought up that idea, the idea that had made today better than yesterday? Who loved him enough to think that up? Who loved him more than anyone else in the world loved him?”
- George Saunders, “Puppy”

saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
If I do not love you I shall not love

The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks.
The head called to the body. The body to the head.
They missed each other. The missing grew large between them,
Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until
The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies
Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills.
(-Brigit Pegeen Kelly, [excerpt from] Song)

fly
back to
me

we headed home—
hair stiff
from the sea,
skin scorched
from the sun,
        like the charred
        remains of that heap of metal
        and rubber we saw on the side
        of the parkway—
I realized we
were driving
headlong
into all of the spiders
and the secrets
that we had left
     up
        north

what felt best,
aside from your warm fingers
drumming
on the back of my
neck, was the
thought that maybe
it didn’t
have to be this way
forever,
that maybe
        one day,
it would get easier

maybe one day,
I wouldn’t have
to stop,

after dropping you
off, to pick up
a bag of hope,
and a container of
fresh berries

There’s a certain orchid look exactly like a certain insect so the insect is drawn to this flower, its double, its soul mate, and wants nothing more than to make love to it. And after the insect flies off, spots another soul-mate flower and makes love to it, thus pollinating it. And neither the flower nor the insect will ever understand the significance of their lovemaking. I mean, how could they know that because of their little dance the world lives? But it does. By simply doing what they’re designed to do, something large and magnificent happens. In this sense they show us how to live - how the only barometer you have is your heart. How, when you spot your flower, you can’t let anything get in your way.

-John Laroche, Adaptation

Let me know
Let me know
Let me go
Let me go
Let me have him
Let me have him
How I love him
How I love him
-Stevie Smith

putting love
into
the heart
is like
pouring hot grease
into
a coffee can,

and closing it
behind the
freezer door.

Love is such a strange concept. I mean, there is no basic human need for the affection of another human being. It simply evolved into such, over a lengthy period of time. There is no existential necessity in giving your passion wholeheartedly to another individual. It’s really absurd, when you think about it.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m sure the notion of love has been around for eons and eons. (I hesitate to use the term love, because it’s been perverted by years of misuse by the behemoth that is human language). The notion of deep, and impassioned connection to, or affection for, another human being, has most likely been around since the dawn of man. But like I said, there was never any inherent need for such a thing. Human life didn’t depend on the capacity to instill all of your emotion into one other individual. I wonder how it evolved into such.

I’ve never given much credit to the idea of love. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, it’s inherently meaningless. It’s a blip on the radar of human existence. It’s a nice bonus: like morning sex, or having two bottles of water roll out of a vending machine when you only paid for one. Am I opposed to falling in love? No. It’s happened to me. Yes, I’m a bitter cynic. But who’s to say I won’t be swept off my feet one day? There’s no way of knowing it (and unlike most people, I’m okay with that). I’m just not the type of person who focuses their life’s quest on finding “the one.” I don’t think there is a “one.” I think there are lots of ones, and we’re so busy looking for the best one of them, that we miss all of the others.

In my favorite poem, by Bukowski, Alone With Everyone, he writes: “nobody ever finds / the one. / the city dumps fill / the junkyards fill / the madhouses fill / the hospitals fill / the graveyards fill /nothing else / fills.” And I think this is a great representation of what I’m talking about. We spend our entire lives searching for this “possibly unattainable” thing: love.

Valentines Day is a day adored by many, yet hated by more. It’s a day that’s come to be equated with deep-seated sadness and misery at being alone. You know what today felt like for me? Like a Tuesday. Valentines Day is just another day, with a fancy name. Another day to be happy, another day to do something you want to do, another day to appreciate something.

Contrary to popular belief, love isn’t everything. I’m not sure there is an “everything.” There are just lots of little somethings. Lots of little glass shards of experience that make up the mosaic of your existence.