THE IRONY OF LOVE

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In a lifetime, whether a few or dozens of suitors

It matters not, unless they declare or are on our conscious radar…

The power is in the intensity of feeling

But many keep it hidden, for fear of shame or remonstrance.

The fear dominates the desire

And so Lady Jane remains chaste

Undaunted by passion, nay UNAWARE of same

In the men swirling all around her petticoats.

Polite conversations as a brother or cousin might engage in.

Getting to know you, perhaps a waltz…

But the fire burns hotly, silently within

And all she feels is her intuition, hints of carnal desire emanating

In a look of ire, a stroke of the forearm,

A grab of the hand in the street, nothing more.

Explainable by fraternal care, not eros.

Yet one by one, over time, they reveal their hands.

A chuckle, an emotional enforced distance, an encouragement for another suitor, a kiss

A hug, a touch, a set of words, jealousy, allowing freedom for the higher good

of fulfillment for the beloved even if by another.

Sacrifice is at the heart of love for ourselves and others.

We abandon our desire for the sake of the beloved and accept abnegation.

Seven dudes all engaged to others or married, merely fantasizing

Both us and them, never actually touching. Alas, no more.

For the days of fecundity are now passed.

And the slow beat of obsolescence has begun.

We are at the top of the pyramid now, and in decline, though we fight.

We can have only if a loved one passes on.

The door does not swing open otherwise

Unless the wife repudiates the husband and allows for divorce.

So Lady Jane waits forever in her mausoleum of a home

Waiting for her Prince to actually love her body and soul.

Isn’t it ironic this dance?

So much pent-up desire and fear of intimacy?

At least for Lady Jane: no one claims her.

As her petticoats get soiled by disuse.

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