Hold love in my outstretched hands, an offering that slips through my
fingers each time, the ground at my feet saturated as it pools around me.
Maybe if it was thicker, more substantial like molasses, I could hold it
longer. Maybe you could then take it from me gladly, without spilling a
drop, and it would stretch out between us.
But "maybe" doesn't mean a thing when I know my acetone love is only
good for one thing- wiping away the marks left behind on your skin,
under your nails, until it evaporates, leaving you shining and new for
the next person who extends their love to you. And maybe that's all right.
Maybe I should be happy that I am a stepping stone that prepares
people for someone meant for them, even though that someone is never
me. I'm a catalyst, an in-between, a doorway. And no one likes to stand
in a doorway, straddling two rooms (lives), not coming or going, just there.
It's a lonely existence, being an observer even while being allowed to
participate for a short time. I cherish the time that I do have, truly, but
I'm growing weary and my back is bowed and aching, my heart is frayed
from all the times I've had to stitch it back together.
Loved it!
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