everything in Life is commeasurate.
what goes up - eventually comes back down.
and the further you go up, into elation,
the further you fall, when you hit the ground.
lovesick. heartache. the balloon you knew.
the impetus, the floating, the very thought.
only implodes, all the more,
at rejection, all of a sudden - shock.
how can one word turn a world around?
i’m sure the answer is simple.
but mired in desire and it’s momentum,
you can’t see it - you see only the wrinkle.
the crease in the world you disappeard in.
folded over, discounted, unclaimed.
dropped. stopped. forsaken.
one word - turned on a dime, and left no change.
so what does that say about the leave-or?
and just how fragile must they be?
that they cannot allow you a voice of your own,
bereft, left to be only the leave-ee.
questions abound as your heart goes round,
the conundrum of ‘if only..’ to ‘in fact..’.
and you find the piece of your Self you both love and hate,
but it matters not - you were stopped in your tracks.
so there is just nothing else left for it.
not another syllable that you can say.
it would only come across as some sales pitch,
or a pleading, and - a fall from grace.
the only way to step outside your own Self,
is to be quiet, and give that quiet it’s due.
there is no longer a way to speak to the man
whom you only wanted, deeply inside, to know you.
the things unsaid between lines are the answer
but you can only embrace what grew in your own capabilities,
even though for the other - it was just not enough.
outrage comes in time, but so does being benign.
you can never account for another.
silence is a deadly weapon,
and when it’s turned on you, it’s hard to recover.
your brain goes atumble with caring.
saying things, like, ‘how could you not know..?’
but no one is as astute as you about your own Self,
so you just swallow, catch your breath - and go.
it’s so fucking hard to cherish.
the wanton only wants to have more.
to speak, to reach, to whisper,
to a person you just simply adored.
but to dwell on the heartstrings that played you
will only keep you in some wretched Past.
so, to just simply walk on, and say thank you
frees your grief, and gives you back your class.
gifts from others are actually of your own making.
sadly, not everyone knows of balance:
that what each withholds, or chooses to unfold,
equals the commeasuration of simpatico’s allowance.
only you know your own coloration.
only you know each little hue.
why or why not you are piqued or repelled,
and if it’s not accepted, then just don’t suffer the fool.
easy to say; hard to live.
for desire is its own special beast.
but to flow along within each passing moment
brings the commeasuration between truth and belief.
you saw what you saw, heard what you heard,
and felt, to the limits you own.
so grief is basically only anger,
the disbelief of not being known.
but still All is actually always in balance.
even though interplays were not explained.
you both read between lines, drew your conclusions,
received, believed in a flow that suddenly changed.
you cannot teach another;
no one wants a script.
but if you ask for a bit of time, or reassurance,
it leaves you helpless, at the rift.
disbelief, what happened?
but you’ll never know another’s idea of perfection.
you only know when you fit, feeling cherished and believed,
so you’re just left stymied upon silent rejection.
so in the end, the only commeasuration you know
is in what you took, and in what you gave.
for you can only know your own truth, and live it,
and you are the only one you can save.