putting the damage on

Sometimes I read things that I wrote and think

how naive can you be, really?


Incredibly, apparently.
Wow, past, how you slid right in beneath my radar and corrupted me into scenes of love, leaving me, ultimately, with sienna-tinged memories that belie the truth I could never--

then--

see with my eyes open, closed, squinted, or blinded.

Love, & its shades, its forms & malformations: each time, yes, it was love.
But each time was different. I think
the body, the mind/heart
train us to forget the straight-edge fine-line details
and live instead in a smear that shows
feelings existed
but little detail to frame a reference.
This is better than the last
or that was nothing compared to this
I think lies I told myself once upon a handful of years ago.

But:
This (here/now/Her) is incredible love.
Its excitement rivals any other because
there is no doubt, no fear,
no shades of grey.