Poem: Overprotective



You see,
I have watched love die.
Far too often.
Sometimes slowly, by starvation or neglect,
a rotting away over time
until even the foundation finally comes undone.

Sometimes by acts of violence,
Words. Tones. Violence of soul and body,
each one a test
to see how strong love on the other side is,
how much it can take.
There is always a limit.
A moment of death that seems sudden,
but never is.

I have watched love die.
I know resurrection is rare.
Oh, it happens, but rarely.
Most often the attempts are no more than delays.

It is a horrible thing, the death of love.
Horrible to watch, in yourself or others,
horrible in the knowing, worse in the not knowing.

And so if I am overprotective
of the tender shoots of our own love,
you must forgive me. I have seen enough die,
and the ripples of those deaths,
and I am not certain I can survive another.
Ressurection, after all, is rare,
and I have no idea how many I have left.

About this poem

No, I am not overprotective of my own love. But that word, overprotective has been rattling around in my head all morning. I had to write something to get it out.


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