#30 Sweeter than roses.

Dear P,

It got late before I could take Otto out for a walk today. In fact, the sun was setting in this lava-lamp orange-pink colour over speckled clouds as I left the house. I desperately wanted to see it properly, without it being obscured by houses on the street, or by the trees lining the fields.

Poor old Otto insisted on sniffing at the edge of every bush and shrub and tuft of grass before the turn from the street onto the footpath. I urged him on, but my supplications fell quite literally on deaf ears. I tugged him to advance, but he resolutely held back.

It was funny how these circumstances (like everything these days) reminded me of you. I’ll explain. There I was, supplicating that dog to hasten on down the street, bemoaning that we would miss that beautiful sunset if we didn’t quicken our pace. So, then, that sunset was like the possibility of our love, and you were the one stubbornly resisting my pressure to join me before it was too late.

Sometimes I ask myself whether I pushed too much, or whether I was impatient in some way. But tell me, do you think it would’ve changed anything in the end? You always would’ve acted like a boy in a sweetshop when your need for commitment ended, wanting to try out all the options for fear of missing out. I just hope, dearly, that you don’t become a bull in a china shop and break any more delicate specimens during your tactless explorations.

So you bring this poor dog in from the rain,
Though he just wants right back out again.

You were such a puppy. I liked that about you, it was endearing, even if you made use of it to pull on my heartstrings. Little did you know that my heartstrings were already rusty and loose from years of intermittent misuse and lack of use. Little did I know that you would break them, and I would have to spend such an interminable amount of time learning how to restring them all by myself.

What music will I play on those strings, if I ever manage to restring myself? No doubt something plaintive and mournful about losing my love, losing my faith in love, and losing my ability to love. And I’ll wander the world, all lonely, forever searching and singing for my lost muse.

He will never return to (finally) hear me sing that my love for him was:

Sweeter than roses.

So, I suppose I’ll just have to gather the roses in my garden by myself in recompense.

P