Dissection

[indigolivia]

"We Have Not Long To Love" 

We have not long to love
Light does not stay 
The tender things are those 
we fold away. 

Coarse fabrics are the ones 
for common wear. 
In silence I have watched you
comb your hair.

Intimate the silence, 
dim and warm. 
I could but did not, reach
to touch your arm. 

I could, but do not, break
that which is still. 
(Almost the faintest whisper 
would be shrill.) 

So moments pass as though 
they wished to stay. 
We have not long to love. 
A night. A day... 


(Tennessee Williams) 

     This poem by Tennessee Williams stuck in my head for weeks after reading it for the first time. He wrote the plays "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" and "The Glass Menagerie". Themes of tragedy are rampant in most of his works, but that is why this poem stuck out to me, I think. He writes of love so tenderly, and the most pessimistic view he holds about it, is that it is fleeting. Love seems unattainable throughout many of his works, but in this one he seems to have a grasp on it, and he can admire it as something precious while also recognizing that it is not permanent. 
      Light does not stay, he says. Coarse fabrics are the ones for common wear. Tennessee doesn't see himself as a place for light to remain, he does not believe love is a thing that can be felt often and frequently without the eradication of its existence entirely. I wonder what emotions he classifies as worthy of daily wear. "In silence I have watched you comb your hair." Does he bite his tongue? I picture his intimate words, his kind thoughts spoken like bubbles. I picture him, deeming it worthless to be said if it wont last. He COULD but did NOT reach to touch the arm of the person he observes so fondly. 
      I feel things so deeply, and it feels so silly to have such strong emotions that punch me in my stomach when I am so aware that they have no place to settle, to stay. I feel like I am the observer that is watching my reason fight with my heart, constantly! I can logic my way out of my emotions, but I cannot stop them from punching me in the gut anyways. I think that is why Tennessee's poem is sticking with me, he seems to try to find somewhere to put it down. He, like me, knows that the place to put it down is not within the ears of another. He, unlike me, is better at letting silence sit. I fear I am the shrill scream, I am the rock that disrupts the still water and causes the ripple, I cannot let calm moments stick around. I am envious of his ability to take the intense feelings of admiration, of love, and let them sit in his belly. I am too afraid to let anything grow roots, even if they are only shallow. 
     I love this poem. I love to feel seen. I love to think that I am not alone in my acknowledgement of the fleeting nature of love, of how terrifying it is. I know that others face it with grace, I am a coward in that way. I don't think there is a way that love and loss feels to others the way it feels for me. Writers like Tennessee make me think that there is some genetic makeup that I fell victim to, forcing me to feel love in tandem with the loss of it, both of which are like knives in my eyes. Toothpicks under my toenails. I love to feel seen. Maybe one day I will love to feel.