Evening Song

It rained all day, a soft misty rain, gently easing the summer into the fall. I could hear the even sound of cars moving along the wet pavement as the evening emerged. Then, suddenly, a melody. As though the sun was brightly beaming - the song of an ice-cream truck drawing bees to its pollen.

It's Sunday, past 10pm. I probably shouldn't have had that espresso at 9... 

I saw a line from one of my favourite love poems in a washroom stall today, "I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees." 

A strange sadness washed over me as I realized that I haven't felt anything resembling the sort of love that Neruda described in far too long. It's terrible. It is really just terrible. The love that evolves through friendships isn't enough. Bonding over mutual suffering as a result of the human condition just isn't enough. I want the impulsive, crazy love that often leads to nothing good. I want to feel slightly obsessed and insane. That's psychotic, right? Yes. Yes, it is. It is. Is it?

...אז לפעמים אתה חסר לי

One of these mornings 

It won't be very long 

They will look for me 

And I'll be gone

עשרימ וחמש זה רציני

לילות כאלה

with a suffocating absence of air 

as the candles burned 

shedding a soft, ever-fading light on our bodies

your hands and the freedom 

of your movement 

your skin on mine

and the passing hours of the deep night

brought me here

                                                 it's lighter, 
                                                                      happier