Blood Orange

I’m avoiding crying though I am not through the mourning. The last time I cried I thought that my retinas were going to detach from the great pressure. The edges of my eyelids went from a Pink Grapefruit pink, to a Blood Orange red, and I have been having some continuing irritation, which has deterred me from the luxury of emphatic sadness.

How unbecoming, that a man would seek refuge in solitude, that he may bitterly weep, when there are important things that need tending. A more sympathetic figure is the woman that would fill her need to retreat in this hard and mechanized world.

I do so because there are two things that I love, but to love correctly and completely I must hate one of them and I cannot. Therefore my love is incomplete for both. Should I hate the lesser of the two, for one is human and one is eternal, the lesser would thrive in time. But there is the rub. The time. I would like to say, “I can wait”, or “I will wait”, that these sentiments be from my heart. From within going out. But they are from without going in. My heart says I cannot wait.

Therefore, even though the time will pass just the same, and I will remain alive just the same. I will have endured nothing at all, and will be remembered by the resignation on my rehearsed smile. This is not the voice of hope, that has an unconquerable advocate. I realize. I can only pray that the words may be made to stretch so that they may accommodate my divided heart: “Happy are those that weep”



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