Good Love
Why does good love never hit me quite the same? Why does the taste of lightning on my tongue appeal to me? Why does the blackness behind my chest cavity seize with equal parts dread and longing? Is it because I'm constantly subject to so much ceaseless thought and feeling that a lightning strike that rips through my skin – think seam ripper, seam ripper, seam ripper, would be the only thing strong enough for me to feel?
Why does good love never hit me quite the same? Why is it lightning, not a thunderclap?
Because I don't want a rumble inside. I already rumble. The rumble is constant, non-stop, annoying. I need the electrification of an actual strike. The kind that turns the tongue into a truthteller and bones to piles of soot in shoes. Is electrification even a word? It should be. Why does good love never hit me quite the same? Well doc, it goes back to my childhood. Why is it that childhood never even seems important until midlife? All that wounding, but we never really notice how acutely we're covered in blood and leaking until we're older.
Why does good love never hit me quite the same? This feels like the kind of question I should answer while pulling petals off a flower.
Why do you cling to this intensity? Why do you so long to wrap yourself up in the cellophane of what makes you different? You have to know cellophane can be as dangerous as it can be protective. Why does good love never hit me quite the same? Boring. Unpredictable. Transient. Untrustworthy. Conditional. You say it isn't, but it always was.
