Love Poem 22

Sometimes love is

the uninvited houseguest

who ends up living on the couch in perpetuity,

taking up and taking away the

sometimes limited space

we have.

I read somewhere that fish and guests get old

after three days

and I wonder what the

shelf life

is for love.

I’ve heard some people making it

fifty years,

sixty years, even.

Does anyone ever make it longer?

Can the body and mind handle it for that long?

Is love a terminal condition?

What does it look like if

left untreated?

Is it something that can carry on beyond the grave?

I’m just asking for a friend.

I know the people who

have loved them

and who are filled up by the feeling,

so what is it that doesn’t work properly with my friend?

If love is supposed to heal, why is the

pain in their guts

only intensifying?

Why are they the one feeling this way and living this way and

thinking this way?

How fair is that to anyone?

When they howl at the moon and scream at the stars, it isn’t

because the wolf in them needs to blow off some steam.

They are howling and screaming and raging because

they cannot hold up their end of the bargain.

All those nights spent roaring into the void,

all those tortured wails

were not banshees.

In this world, there are no banshees.

In this world, there are only broken hearts crying on

tormented winds,

and only the pained souls who are unable to let it all go,

understand the hurt of it all;

they, who are unable to submit or surrender to the thing

everything says will

slough away the pain.

How long can one last in love if they are in constant hurt?

How many more full moon nights can be spent hoping that

some way,

somehow,

one might be able to drop to their knees and let that

silver light

wash over them?

Will there ever be an end to the most painful of changes?