What I invented for myself is our love. You were just you— yet
another man on the same earth—another face in a sea of faces—the crowd
of skin and eyes and hair—blurred and nondescript, melded together and
indistinct.
I heard your voice, and your words enticed. I gambled
a seed on you—and within your willing embrace, it sprouted. The bud
that grew whispered a promise: I would never be alone- never anonymous.
Face recognition would yield identity.
Now we water and fertilize
this love with horse manure and bull shit. You offer it as a bursary to
subsidize my initial loan. Can we persist in our invented bucolic
bliss? I want to know the truth, but I’m scared of it.
The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins
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