Sunday Kind of Love

I do my Sunday dreaming, oh yeah. . .And all my Sunday scheming –Every minute, every hour, every day.Oh, I’m hoping to discover,A certain kind of lover –Who will show me the way. . .eh, would help if I knew how to be the sort of lover I claim to long for . . .

Don’t think I could choose a muse betta, though... than transcendental lady Etta. Her lovely face can be the luminous backdrop of my jumbled thoughts, any day of the week... and I’m glad for it, but oh so undeserving. My stormy weather of thundercloud emotions that even a double rainbow can’t redeem. In the aftermath, I find myself pathetic in gloomy darkness and deserving to suffer alone. At least romantically. I can’t keep torturing someone that it provokes them to uncharacteristic behavior. That tells me that I’m the toxin. Makes sense. After zapping a chance admirer, a sincere dear heart who I struck like an angry skytyrant, what can I expect? Feels necessary to punish myself to protect any who are potentially mislead by the lure of my honest attempts to be a bearable beast, at the very least.

In the end, only idiots would still seek the shelter of my heavens... the sky may be a stunning sight to behold, I don’t flatter myself to believe it – but nonetheless, the tempest is too dangerous for any rational person to risk their own livelihood trying to coexist with the likes of me. Only storm-chasers with death wishes... or masochists. But still, I can wallow and dream while I listen to jazzy renditions of people who got it right. I deeply regret the damage I caused, but it’s unforgivable how I then fumbled attempts to clean up the debris. It wasn’t all my doing, but I know my ugliness when it bears its teeth. I can’t begrudge anyone who’d abandon a person like that.

Untamed sultry-soft miss James... She sets a high standard of beauty to behold, but in bubbly sunbeams that warm your soul to the core, when less skillful crooners (like me dammit) might burn you trying to emit her level of radiance... I can only gratefully soak in her full glory once I release the ugly inside of me, but it seems ingrained — should have known time was of the essence, that rot will squat if I don’t evict it. But there’s guilty obligation since I invited it in. So, in my own bed I lie. Miserable. Pathetic. A parasitic mindset, a negative disabling paralytic asshole. I’d prefer the afterglow of a “Sunday kind of love” — but I have to stabilize on my own if I want to realize its potential. I don’t have much faith in myself at this point. All who said as much were right about me.

Love that lingers and haunts me long after the fingertips have moved on to another canvas, but too late did I grasp the rarity of the skillful strokes for their ability to provoke pleasurable sensations that sprung from me like a rubberband shooting into the stars (Edie Brickell, heh)...

...the only parallel to be seen now is the supermoon that just graced us with its luminescence. I was too busy acting like a giant ass to see through the cloudy skies what I’ll never have the opportunity to witness again in my lifetime.

Such is life, to the anyone, probably best if no one who reads this – take it from this idiot, don’t fuck up good things. Don’t be a jackass like this girl who might’ve had next Sunday to enjoy the familiar embrace that could carry me through rainy Mondays, but I sabotaged my anticipated reenactment. My throwback Thanksgiving Thursday, damn so fucking temperamental in my misunderstanding. I crave it, how it gently caresses me with comfort I didn’t know how to keep... seems it might have somehow fallen in place effortlessly. Except I can’t relax enough to give up my desire to contribute my self-righteous efforts. I’m an asshole in the space between the times that prove it was worthwhile.

That sort of authenticity in a connection, was likely wasted on me. But it can’t be denied when you’re fortunate enough to stumble upon it. It’s too huge, too raw and panoramic. I’m a jackass who deserves to be hindkicked... Etta, I wish I knew what you did.

So rare is true love that it’s downright mythical — and like any legendary element of folklore, blinds us, with our pitiful photosensitivity. Giddy and concurrently overwhelmed, our mortal minds irrationally see it as glaring distortion. As unnatural, too cliche-serendipitous, too impossible. We won’t recognize it using the tunnel-vision we employ when purposefully looking for it. We often reject it as abrasive when we’re gifted with it. Such lovefools, eh. We don’t deserve it. We deserve instead to continue smacking each other with cavemen clubs barbarically, scratching our irritated backsides as we resign ourselves to having fleas... but blame and neglect the loyal pup who cuddled us through our saddest moments... love. It’s painful only because we bumble through life and feel pre-destined to fuck it up. Yep. And did I, ever. The pattern is mine to own in shame.

Now if I blink it’s a blip, a wrinkle in time to reference my quantum kindred L’Engle in that book I loved as a kid... I idolize intelligence but practice the methods of a Shakespearan tragic... should’ve stayed a court jester.

PS. . . Or something.

...the message I began and decided to save here instead, this little corner to stash the verbosity that eventually repels everyone, and being scolded for it only creates a wildfire. Probably best to flee from such a combustible personality. So, here instead...

Sundays are extra heavy with missing you because of the weekly substitute. Your beautiful, like-minded companionship, it has been a craving that I recognized was meaningful enough to try to earn... I can’t possibly know our eventual union would produce the positive outcome I hope for. But the hope itself, the possibility, ever since that spark ignited in me, was a “bright spot” for me as long as you continued to humor me the chance. I don’t know how dim your “light” it is at any given moment. That’s the handicap of my distant view. If I could call it anything, I’d say I feel I’m looking through a periscope. My misconception was that I was the only one who was underwater. But your vulnerabilities that you revealed, whether voluntarily or not, were appreciated as evidence of your genuineness. I just wanted to be sensitive to them when they gradually presented in the same way you were careful with me. You treated me with care and tucked away your own damage, but it was well-meaning, it was protective of a fragile new connection that you cared enough to treat gently. I admit that I get exasperated that. Your light probably feels less illuminating from within. It always has for me, too. I feel like an emotional oversentimental fool because I refuse to let go of... (and left hanging because, this is where dwelling feels manipulative and wrong.) I always say too much, and never the right thing. Seems like I should be mum as a merciful act. It’s the only reason I would ever stop trying. If only I was able to know, what’s “best” I’d do it. But I’m the hex. Time to own it.