The Thing That Makes Loving You Truly Impossible
Poem by Adam Crawford
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It's "You've just too much of this" or "You're too little of that," with the obvious thing being that the ideal person isn't too much of anything. If that's the case, well, then that makes me angry: not because I don't wish to work on myself (it's true though -- I don't), but that this means the work is endless and therefore meaningless. If you make growing a prime concern, you won't ever be finished. Something will, in time,
Always need to be adjusted for the satisfaction of someone else; and, oh, of course: "Nobody asks for perfection," I know, but they do ask for stagnation -- for a personality held-fast and unchanging -- which can't be helped on either side. So, it's a temporary fix at best, considerate character clean-ups; and what's the alternative: acceptance? . . . Ignoring is what that is really called. Accepting, if it does not merely mean tolerance, means seeing fresh beauty in something that one had not before; and some such habits and past events are simply beyond our capacities to put up with in others. "Then it is our duty to be better understanders of each other." Wrong: we must be better judges; and it is no duty -- just the only way to preserve love's illusory strength.
Adam Crawford is a writer of poems and short stories. His work has been published by Ink Babies LitMag, Silent Spark Press and The Pomegranate London. He lives in Simi Valley, California.