Sylvie Hill

Like A Son

Oh my God, when I woke up
I had been dreaming of you, my last love.
I nearly forgot what I was made of
— but I could feel it; there it was.
My lover, but I loved you like my son.

Or like my Self when I was young
Insecure, scarred, and 21
Fully accepted and cared for by Jordan
Roles reversed, it was like I was him now
The Understander, the rock foundation?

But it is odd to fuck one’s son
Or a grown man with such muscles at 31.

I missed you as a body companion
A gorgeous physique: absolute perfection.
Brilliant guitarist, in talk tho: dull.
Often depressed, not a lot of fun.
Yet the most talented, bar none.

That day to Damien, your slip of the tongue:
You mentioned your friend-girl’s name once.
You wanted your girl like her: innocent and nun.
I was that; but loud-mouthed and ravenous.
I wasn’t that, experienced and haunted.

And that is why I reached out in 2011 or 12 around eleven.
A gig up near Herne Hill, searching for something with anyone.

He had never been a thought
Just a symbol in a book far off.
He was an email at night, and why not?
Bringing me back to two thousand and one
when my life had magic trans-Atlantic connection
and music, music, music until dawn.

Ah, London town.
An era, bygone.

We each found the other after our relationships:
Healing, regretting, and trying to not give a shit.
He poured himself into music, I pored over my written.
Unlike Muse 1 and me on the search, we were co-pilots.
Not bothered to go out, we shared drinks on the Internet.

Many men come to me: a safe place off the sea.
I welcome them with care, lovingly.
I shield them warmly from the storms and debris.
I feed them, compliment them, I give them tea.
I am used to exchanging, and the camaraderie.

All the stimulation in your tracks, words he gave me
I didn’t have with my last love: I was starving!
So: intellect, debate with a Londoner, conspiring!
Igniting me compared to my last love, so meek!
But each to each, we were just loveless filling…

Filling in for daily care.
Filling in as supporter.
Filling in during the despair.
Filling in as protectors …

Oh my God, when I woke up
I had been dreaming of you, my last love.
I nearly forgot what I was made of
— but I could feel it; there it was.
My lover, but I loved you like my son.

And thought:

I loved the first fierce eternal like an equal, but wanted him fiercer.
I liked a lot the second London-leaving, but he was kinda queer.
I loved the third when he wasn’t drunk; he’ll always feel like family.
I loved the fourth for a few months, his place in Chelsea; he was funny.
I loved the fifth as you do a friend, meh: we had lots of sex on Elm Street.
I loved the sixth as I did in my dream last night: rebound, self-mirroring.

Love One is married to a girl who looks like me, prettier, Lighter, always smiling.
Love Two is married in London to an Asian girl. So he does all the talking.
Love Three is not married, and down the street, still drinking and still my family.
Love Four is married to a Chelsea mum as she is to him and his random offspring.
Love Five is married to his first love, centre of attention, kids, showboat-impressing.
Love Six is still single last I checked, like me, since we broke off in 2012 and counting.

Oh my God, when I woke up
I had been dreaming of you, my last love.
I nearly forgot what I was made of
— but I could feel it; there it was.
My lover, but I loved you like my son.

My, how our love for another depends so much upon
knowing ourselves first to recognize what we got
or to know what we’re attracting, why we are sought
to form faiths around if we’ll ever find the right love –

— or not.

Are we awake with a feeling, though, of something we dreamed of?
Or are we semi-conscious living a reality that is done, done, done?

I have loved all kinds and I have been loved.
And I will not be ruled by convention.
My loving does not lead to a life, suburban.
And it is shaped by being abandoned — and abandon.
Which is why I mused trans-Atlantic:
you can’t be left when you’re already gone.

Give me the smell of saw dust.
The slight scent of a man’s cologne or musk.
The sound of a radial arm saw.
And piano hands, or paws.
And out of place comments, vulgar. Raw.

And you will know my Father.

So is it any wonder as discarded Daughter,
I loved my last love like a son?

Is it any wonder I sit still from last making love
with a connection after which I stopped ‘our’ creation of one?

©Sylvie Hill 2018