Longer Lasting Poem by Catherine Elaine

We are seduced by songs and
‘happily ever after’ scrolling across screens
in the movie reels of
our secret fantasies, both fed by lies
falling from the remnants of fairy tales
and bedtime lullabies.

Poets wax it,
and under the full moon, it does seem possible—
if rushed in our eagerness to fall, but to fall safely.
(But the wise among us know, there is no such fling) .
In the haze, we tell ourselves release is renewal,
that this first blush and fresh bloom is truth.
But—
by light of day it wanes.

That’s amore.

Despite our schooling, our independence, our
“you go girl” and “single is sexy” bumper stickers,
and the thought that we can save ourselves,
we still yearn
for what we learned in our youthful
diet of Disney,
dodging disappointment, confusion, illusion,
false hope and cheesy commerciality.
(That’s aimed at you, Hallmark, Hollywood) .

Deep in the tender period between wakefulness and sleep,
where secrets wishes and passions surge unchecked,
what it comes down to is this:
a midnight phone call from a friend.
The barely cracked open door to her
heart is already full of palpable pain.
She spills, softly. Her voice cracks,
and your heart does with her.
You gather her anger, confusion, and hurt as your own,
speaking into the sudden silence and infusing it with
support.
You return countless favors
with few words and a sympathetic ear.

And finally, you decide that if this is all there is of love,
it is enough*. But more importantly, it is real.
It is here.
It is now.
And it, unlike illusions, will last.


*nod to Emily Dickenson