Loss

Joy is free,

To roam the gardens, trespass on grounds,

And have a jolly good time.

We complete the picture, and it glistens with the touch of joy,

That each jigsaw piece lends it.

Joy is unflavored, not ornamented by some chemical and medicinal remedies.

Raw is the joy that is born of several fixtures that just need to be there.

And so it shines in its own purity.

Joy is when I bite my tongue in worry about how long you've been downstairs,

Only to have you plunge indoors with an apology written all over your face.

Joy is when I can reprimand you and thank God for you at the same time,

Joy is when you pester me with your demands, when you whine and dissent,

And I either concede, or stay rigid, unwavering,

For joy is both, as joy is just you.

It is all the many reminders that you're around, happy or wistful.

You flinch at my errors, you laugh at all I don't know,

And I thwart any upper-handedness by playing bad-cop.

How lucky am I to turn on that masquerade which can shade,

My gratitude for you from you.

Dear, if you only knew that your brazen remarks left not a scar,

You would not scuttle away but just watch the outbursts of rage,

With silent sympathy.

At some point, I believe, you unconsciously will.

All springs pass, all winters bide, we have endured all summers,

You and I.

We have taken each memory, touched it with joy, 

And stowed it away eloquently.

Be my friend, my daughter, my sister et al,

My heart pounds to confer all the possible designations on you.

How blinded am I, to that gentle rapping in my soul,

Which tells me to value you being you.

That fundamental desire to have you be there,

Is somehow violently suppressed by countless wishes for you,

That golden truth, as firm yet as feeble as pure gold,

That you may not be there, is alien, being accepted as unalienable. 

And as the tide unmercifully breaks apart the other illusions,

So pitifully built on that uncertain truth.

I begin to see, in your eyes, some angelic divinity,

That your childish truants didn't allow me to see.

I wipe your forehead, hot with fever,

But the temperature doesn't subside,

All the frigidity that my hands are now filled with,

My dear, how I wish I could impart to you!

You trust me so, you know that each day, 

Will be better and better with my efforts.

But I know you so, that I stifle all kept pent up,

And pray you will get better for you.

I know I can't lose you, but I convince myself,

That it's more important you shan't lose me too. 

So I sit, stand, sleep, cry and laugh by your side, 

And my prayers stagnate because of their refrain.

But the more they beat, the more comforted I feel,

Not to have betrayed your trust.

And just as soon as you were all well,

And just as briefly as you fell ill,

I see that peaceful, restful face,

Not at all what it ought to be!

God knows the torrents that are running havoc inside me,

The grips of that touch of joy being torn apart,

As a piece of the jigsaw is pieced apart,

Only to be turned face-down,

The shine not really waned, but turned inside out,

The outside the splendid memories of you.