Imported Poems

While cleaning out my word files, I stumbled across this bit - a "good-bye" to the one I love (still love), never sent:

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I hate you. I hate you because you’re beautiful. I hate you because you’re inspirational. I hate you for drawing down the night sky so I could touch the moon and the stars in your eyes. I hate your heavenly hair, the round orbs of your breasts, the long stretch of cheekbone and lengthy fingers promising palpable, gentle caresses. I hate you for loving me at first, for wanting me close (though I denied you), for romancing me, for being so pretty and soft that I couldn’t help but fall in love with you. How could I not, when you were such a child longing for affection, for my approval, my acceptance? And how could I hold back from such a sensitive spirit reverberating the same self-consciousness and doubt as my own?

I gave you everything I had - every elevated thought and emotion, every encouragement, every desire, every praise. I gave you my strength and my hope and my wisdom - I sung your worth in every verse, in prose, in every form or fashion imaginable, I molded your likeness and set it forth for others to admire. And you did like your portrait being painted, didn’t you,? You even assisted me in painting it - correcting my strokes for accuracy or consistency - to ensure the finished product was acceptable. Some would say you are conceited and selfish for wanting me to make something in your own image, and to some extent its true, but you are also vacant inside, so hollow and so empty the only way you can gaze upon yourself is through the artist’s eyes: only in their inspired creation can you love yourself and this is the reason you seek them out, albeit unintentionally.

But don’t fear; you’ve inspired the greatest among us and that you won’t be forgotten. Through us, you have been made - immortal.