I listen for my true love’s voice—she is my inspiration, when, that is, i have no philosophy to impart, or i long for a human connection. She knows, i think, that, in this life, we shall never meet, and that, furthermore, I do not expect her to suffer, doing without. But she keeps me in the back of her mind—and, i think, her partner is wise, having made, on his part, a similar agreement, across space and time. The agreement, then, is the foundation of their love, and, because of that, I am happy she has, in my place, something that is true, and good.
I have my work—perhaps, i too, would make an agreement, but even that person would have to be special enough, and no such person, for me, exists—but my work does the job that her partner does—occupying my time, and easing my suffering. The three of us just go on yearning for something more—something that, for my woman and I, at least, only heaven can provide.
Maybe she comes from some backwoods town, and moved to the city to be found—i don’t know, but it seems likely enough. She’s probably not mentally ill. She probably works some job that she likes well enough, that pays well, and puts her in a position to preserve both her beauty and her happiness—which, doesn’t depend, of course, entirely on me.
Beauty opens doors—and i know she has the sense to use it, to make her life better than it might otherwise be—a potential dumping ground for the coarse, lower rungs of society.
So I go my own way; it leads back to
her—and the life, in heaven, i currently
lead. Thinking, then, of all the things i’d do,
to her, for her, in the bedroom. I’ll be
there soon enough, fuel to the fire,
constantly adding to the bank in my mind,
the one i use, when, amidst desire,
i approach the climax she has designed,
from one dimension to the next. I go
to her, and she comes to me—she will
become as important as what i know,
and use, ultimately, to distill
my creations, my understanding of
the world that we live in—half unsung.
I speak, dear heart, of perpetual love,
the family i choose, and live among.
There is no reason, now, to feel slighted,
though her absence leaves me incomplete,
since she lives already in my head,
the product of my every conceit.
She is not the one that does me wrong—
it’s a function, instead, of the call—
the call that makes me worthy of her song,
and all the things i’ll never forestall.