I have realized that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it.
That we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
That if my heart
every time I fell from love,
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break, y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.
Let it go. Leave it alone. Let it pass. Let it be. Laissez-faire. C’est la vie. What’s done is done. Hang up on it. Land the plane. Don’t get on that train. The bus has already left. This too shall pass. Shake it off. Cut your losses. Bust loose. Break free. It’s water under the bridge. What goes around comes around. Go around. Get over it. Get it together. Get a grip. Get moving.
Keep moving. Move on. Move forward. Forward.
even before we met,
when the assignment was to draw words
with their own literal meanings
I would write out each letter of the word LOVE
using winning halves of wishbones, melted Crayons
and the toe tips of the great dancers who’ve quit dancing
because I don’t give up on shit like that.
—Buddy Wakefield, from “Flockprinte,” Live For a Living. (write bloody publishing; 1 edition, October 1, 2007)