POEME: All I Ever Ask

All I Ever Ask

My Sweetie,
My Lamb,
My Lover,
You are upset.  Essentially with the whole world.
He has hurt you.  She has hurt you.  They have hurt you.  Even,
it has hurt you.
You have a litany of grievances.
And you are upset with me too,
because I should also have been upset with them,
if I, at all, loved you.

But, Honey,
you miss the point.
I do not just love you.
I worship you.
I exist for you.
But, beyond that,
I love me too.
And most of all,
I love my heart.
It is a sacred space for me.
It is the sanctum sanctorum
of all that which has sanctity for me.
It is a place where I keep my treasures.
Like the divine vision
of the first day you asked me to dance with you.
And the first day you swam with me.
And the first day you asked me to hold you.

In that,
Darling,
I do not keep all the uncountable hours and days and months and years
when you were nasty towards me.
The times when you knew
I wanted you with me and you stayed away.
Most often,
while sitting right across me.
I have no ledger in my heart
where I could have noted down all the instances when you,
deliberately, broke my heart.
When you kept things from me.
When you gave me nothing,
but expected and took the world from me.

No,
Sugar,
I have no record,
of any of the times when you hurt me.
Nor, when anyone else did.
Even, people I actually do not like.
I forget all those pains
as soon as time allows me to.
And often, I assist it with all my being.
Why do I not keep my heart stocked up
with all those painful memories?

Because,
Love,
my heart is my refuge.
It is the place I go to
when I decide to live on for another day.
To find succour.
To find love.
To find beauty.
To find courage.
To find belief in this world, and its people.
To find pleasure.
To find gems long forgotten,
which when I rediscover,
make my heart skip a beat with joy.
My heart, Dearest,
is mine.
I do not collect and keep shit in it.
For then,
whenever I'll take a dip in it,
I will be covered with it.
I choose instead,
to emerge scintillating, shining, fragrant.
To again become the man
I can love.
I cannot afford to keep
even one piece of ugliness in it.
It is my safe, my vault, my safe-deposit box.
I keep my gold and diamonds
and pleasure and beauty and happiness and joy and liberty and love and life in it.
Not pieces of dried turd.

So,
Dearly Beloved,
I am not upset with them,
not because I do not love you.
But because
I love you far too much
to keep you cooped up with your hurts.
If I could,
I would erase them all
with one twirl of my finger, and give you,
Angel,
all the love that you deserve.
My heart,
Light of My Life,
is mine.
It must have in it
only those things that I love.
Like you.
Not those that hurt you.
Not those that hurt me.
Couldn't your heart,
Honeybunch,
be just a little bit your own?
A place to love?
A place of love?
A place for love?

And if not,
why not just give it
along with all the poison that is killing you,
to me?
In time,
I shall make it ambrosia,
and return it to you.  Possibly.
You forget
that I have no interest in life, but you.
Why ask me to commiserate
when I can transcreate?
Why ask me to hate the hurt,
when you know my job is to create happyness?
Why not allow me to rekindle in it,
a real love
for a real person
with a real opportunity
of making it real?

You do remember
that that is all
I ever asked of you.
Don't you?

-

(c) owais. Creative Commons Attribution licence (reuse allowed).