you won't find love at ladies 80's night.

They say a watched pot never boils,
they also say love comes when you least expect it to.
Now, I’ve been doing my best to shun the metaphorical stove:
I sold my magic pasta pot at a junk yard sale a few months back,
I ceremoniously burned all my cooking instruments
and spinning wheels in a fiery heap—
I ripped out the sink entirely—
I simply left the kitchen with hopes of
somehow activating the laws of attraction via avoidance;
the results have been underwhelming.
Since my leave from the kitchen,
I’ve come to two conclusions:
1. out of sight does not necessarily mean out of mind.
2. avoiding the problem does not make any fucking sense.

When I was in mourning,
and my heart was a pincushion,
I knew what to do.
Even though I couldn’t prevent
the pins and needles from puncturing,
I at least knew what to expect,
I was prepared to hurt,
I was prepared to feel pain,
and I knew I could dress and tend to the wounds,
no matter how raw and tender they were,
and that they would eventually heal,
and that I could take codeine for pain.
Now that my heart is a black hole
I’m at a loss.
I don’t know how to fill this void.

If there is one thing I do know, it is this:
love is the answer.
I can feel it in my bones.
I can feel it when I’m climbing alone into an empty bed.
I want to conjure up something beautiful
I want to put a pearl in the ground,
I want to bury something precious
and watch it grow into something incredible.
And I want to do this WITH somebody.

And I know, for certain, that I won’t find him
at ladies 80’s night downtown.



I am aching to love.

Here I am.
I am ready.
Where are you?