By Breath and Whispers

 

To love or be loved is not a difficult thing,
to be and be more than present
sharing sorrows and joys
in varying degrees and qualities.
It is possible to find mutual support
in the midst of almost any storm.

I do not believe in the affectations of feeling.
No crescendo of violins will permeate our days,
no saxophone solo will adorn our sex.
What is real is orchestrated only
by breath and whispers.

I see things in their own and proper places
and seem to expect something
to misalign from its orbit
like Sisyphus waiting for some stone
to punish him for yearning for the peaks.
It's difficult to accept the continuous blossoming
of something beautiful amidst my cacophony,
amidst all of my nonsense.

I am exposed, seen, and accepted,
almost like a deer
caught by the headlights of a car.
It is necessary to detach from the thorns,
to exhaust oneself of inadequacies
to, like a river, let everything else go.
It is impossible to sustain solitude
Without being furrowed by wrinkles and desires.
It has never been difficult to love or be loved.