Will you be my Valentine?
© 2014 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com
© 2014 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com
Love spoke to me and said, “What’s all the hub-bub, Bub,
simply love,
period.
On and on and on, people ask, ‘Have you ever fallen in love?’
Starry eyes, these are good to possess,
but a better question might be, ‘When have you fallen out of love?’
Now this is a meaty question…
or better yet, sticky sweet.”
I pondered Love’s question, when have I fallen out of love?
Ah, yes, the woman on the phone,
sweet thing, just doing her job, verifying my social security number,
mother’s maiden name,
high school,
sex of my last child (of which I’ve had none),
pet’s name (“Did I put down Sparky or Ninja…?”
“I don’t know, you tell me!”),
thong or bikini underwear,
are you kidding me?
Ten minutes of verifying my identity
and my patience thinned.
Then, there was Facebook,
does it count to fall out of love with a social network platform?
What if your relationship is only a day old?
After years of people haranguing me to join, I did,
and then, well, it’s just so basic and ordinary.
I’m on a roll, for this admittance I could probably get sued.
One of my greatest loves was offended—chocolate,
so I must divulge:
I’m participating in a chocolate making class
and imagine this—a multitude of beautiful confections are displayed on the table.
After three hours of whipping, concocting, baking, decorating, inhaling
they’re ready to taste.
Students gather round, giddy with expectation,
body chemicals in overdrive.
Instructor dives in, no fork, no plate, chubby fingers stab
these perfect creations of love,
like Cortez snatching the cacao beans from Montezuma,
didn’t even bother to wipe lips,
stained with the blood of the peons’ offerings.
To the wide-eyed terror and gapping jaws, teacher replies,
“Chocolate is sensual!”
period.
On and on and on, people ask, ‘Have you ever fallen in love?’
Starry eyes, these are good to possess,
but a better question might be, ‘When have you fallen out of love?’
Now this is a meaty question…
or better yet, sticky sweet.”
I pondered Love’s question, when have I fallen out of love?
Ah, yes, the woman on the phone,
sweet thing, just doing her job, verifying my social security number,
mother’s maiden name,
high school,
sex of my last child (of which I’ve had none),
pet’s name (“Did I put down Sparky or Ninja…?”
“I don’t know, you tell me!”),
thong or bikini underwear,
are you kidding me?
Ten minutes of verifying my identity
and my patience thinned.
Then, there was Facebook,
does it count to fall out of love with a social network platform?
What if your relationship is only a day old?
After years of people haranguing me to join, I did,
and then, well, it’s just so basic and ordinary.
I’m on a roll, for this admittance I could probably get sued.
One of my greatest loves was offended—chocolate,
so I must divulge:
I’m participating in a chocolate making class
and imagine this—a multitude of beautiful confections are displayed on the table.
After three hours of whipping, concocting, baking, decorating, inhaling
they’re ready to taste.
Students gather round, giddy with expectation,
body chemicals in overdrive.
Instructor dives in, no fork, no plate, chubby fingers stab
these perfect creations of love,
like Cortez snatching the cacao beans from Montezuma,
didn’t even bother to wipe lips,
stained with the blood of the peons’ offerings.
To the wide-eyed terror and gapping jaws, teacher replies,
“Chocolate is sensual!”
Yes it was, until…well, I won’t go into it again.
My internal thoughts chatter into overdrive, “Who's the instructor, God?
Quetzalcoatl, perhaps?”
In my mind, I step all over the teacher to crawl up on my high horse.
“Ding, ding, ding!” the horse speaks!
It’s Love, of course,
disguised in the horsey voice of the famous Mr. Ed,
“Losing patience,
expectations dashed—so basic and ordinary,
judgment downright sickening,
sounds like love in muddy valleys rather than soaring peaks.”
I consider kicking the sides of my beast,
sinking the spurs in deep and high tailing it out of there,
but of course, Love’s on the bottom and doesn’t move an inch,
rather with sides of steel, speaks,
“When falling out of love, reign yourself in,
don’t shoot for the moon, Starry Eyes,
find a neutral resting place, OK,
like the humble shade beneath me and cool off!”
I begin humming, “I left my horse in San Francisco…
tied to the post by the Ghirardelli factory,” but then,
realizing I’m yakkity yakking a streak,
Love cuts to the chase and speaks
four simple words, I must endorse,
(I’m a sucker for metaphor and Love knows it)
of course, of course—
“Love is the refuge.”
My internal thoughts chatter into overdrive, “Who's the instructor, God?
Quetzalcoatl, perhaps?”
In my mind, I step all over the teacher to crawl up on my high horse.
“Ding, ding, ding!” the horse speaks!
It’s Love, of course,
disguised in the horsey voice of the famous Mr. Ed,
“Losing patience,
expectations dashed—so basic and ordinary,
judgment downright sickening,
sounds like love in muddy valleys rather than soaring peaks.”
I consider kicking the sides of my beast,
sinking the spurs in deep and high tailing it out of there,
but of course, Love’s on the bottom and doesn’t move an inch,
rather with sides of steel, speaks,
“When falling out of love, reign yourself in,
don’t shoot for the moon, Starry Eyes,
find a neutral resting place, OK,
like the humble shade beneath me and cool off!”
I begin humming, “I left my horse in San Francisco…
tied to the post by the Ghirardelli factory,” but then,
realizing I’m yakkity yakking a streak,
Love cuts to the chase and speaks
four simple words, I must endorse,
(I’m a sucker for metaphor and Love knows it)
of course, of course—
“Love is the refuge.”
I harrumph,
climb down off my high horse,
enter the humble shaded space,
and breathe a sigh of relief,
falling back into love,
my refuge.
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