Pearson / Poetry

lose something you can’t replace

In a hotel room right now; it’s where my parents and I stayed the first time we came to Victoria. Fitting, no? I’ve come so far since.

The emotional turbulence is almost liberating. Scratch that – it is liberating. It’s a definite relief to realize that I’ve met people it’ll – and has – hurt so much to leave. I want to feel intensely about people, even if it’ll lead to disappointment in one form or another. People have admonished me often this year for being too susceptible to emotional attachment, for trusting too completely, for honesty about my feelings. I would find it tragic to live otherwise, though, even as the practical side of me winces upon contemplation of all my missteps. In my own way, though, I have found some kind of resolution for many of them, at the end. Or maybe the fatalistic finality of the end has simply swept all out that is and should be unimportant.

I feel badly for not being able to write halfway decent or meaningful letters to many of the people I felt like I had things to say to. But I wasn’t ready to encapsulate months of meaning into one individual missive as yet, and I didn’t – still don’t, I don’t think – know what to make of It all. If anything, the most significant thing I’ve learnt is about myself and relationships and the way I handle them and the way people work and think. I am silly in more ways than one – weak, easy to relent, vulnerable, though I don’t mean those in a pejorative sense – but I have gotten stronger and smarter about some things, and if not, at least more aware of my foibles. That has to count for something, right? I’m not afraid of the intensity of my feelings, but how much of this is simply hubris of departure? How far can I trust my declarations in these few days?

“It Is In the Leaving”
Nicole Blackman

it is in the leaving that the agony begins
—— hope and skin stretched too far

time enough for words
borrowed and weighty

eyes that glisten in the knowing of what comes
always comes
after

airports
train stations
bus stops
take us apart

but we keep knitting together
strangely inevitably
even we don’t question it anymore

it is not in the reuniting that we are together

no kind of kiss binds us
each greeting
each meeting
is new is full of searching
of notsureifitwillbethesame

it is not in the continuing

not in the birthdays anniversaries new years
(although they’re very grand)
nor in the letters calls poems

the miss you’s are careless because they are common

it is not in the waiting

the day-counting
the trip-planning
the bag-packing
no kind of agony that shreds days makes us together
(calendars are cruel)

it is in the leaving

in the last look
last touch
last kiss
one more
will I ever see you again
rip
that makes me sure
that makes him sure
that this is a great love

it is in the leaving

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