My story can’t just be me begging someone to have faith in me. Different relations, different faces from cradle to grave this can’t be all she wrote. I am stuck in Dante’s second circle of hell, where I am only allowed so see, smell, taste, hear, and feel love but never have it. It is a familiar stranger, but never more than a passing season. Lusty Libra only blossom in tornados of unrequited love.
I bid every dancer of love the same phrase, ‘teach me, I not so good with this…’ Consumed with the idea of me, they escort me to the dance floor of their hearts. We begin an elegant two-step and it’s just them and the idea of me…Love has never known my heart, it is but a sublet of my emotions, leasing temporary residency because my dance partners look down and discovers, I have two left feet. Takes two to tango, but I step out of count. I look up for guidance but they have disappears when the reality of me sinks in. I have never successfully dance and been consumed by love. The idea of loving me is simple, the act is a tragedy, and I am weak from the trails and errors of falling in and out, in and out, in and out of love.
This circle of hell is filled with empty words & promises, misunderstanding & communication, and dried tears & wasted time. This cycle is hell. This is the tornado that Dante refers to, the redundancy of my cries and heartaches; seeing successful love in bloom and the faults always seem just outside of my realm of understanding. I beseech them to help me learn, for I have lived a lifetime of ignorance. Their confused, drained, or disconnected expression has a sting that makes my stomach drop. They too will disappear. They too will abandon me. They too have lost faith in the dance of love…or should I say the dance partner. From cradle to grave this can’t be all she wrote…I am dancing in Dante’s Inferno.
