August 19, 2015

On Being Single and Wanting Love. {Poem}

single single blade of grass

In the midst of an avalanche of conflicting thoughts on love and being single,

What does my heart say?

The epicenter of life.

Sometimes I float: I allow my whole body to go limp, the surface of the water carrying me, eyes above—cast toward the sky—, ears below immersed in sounds.

With each inhale, I rise as the oxygen penetrates my lungs and dives into a rich merlot river.

I can hear the familiar:


Fluid in motion. Pulsing. A liquid current forging through time.

A tribal drum beat: an ancestral pacer.

Steel wheels of a train rhythmically rolling across the tracks

into the night. A route with no barriers. Perpetual locomotion: growing?


I am here, I am now

I swim through a sea of advice, weighted with contradiction.

A never-ending river of romantic prodding, narrowing to frothy whitecaps of mixed messages, an erosion of authenticity

and the falls of admonishment for craving.


“You can’t want love, love will come to you when you let the want go”:

Love is woven into every song and story told.

“Strong independent women don’t need the love of another”:

Our idealized oppression.

“One should not be attached to the idea of finding romantic love.”:



On sidewalks—couples walking hand in hand, all ages, all over the world.

Eagles soar and swoop with their chosen one.

Long standing trees, in a solitary stance, reach with sub-terrestrial roots, boring through a rocky terrain in search of

connection, another’s roots to deliver and accept sustenance.

Wolves howl their lifelong devotion to another.


Love: A nutrient vital to life.

Can one not want what the heart wants? Can one turn the want off…?

The answer may lie within, just under the rippling surface.


Fluid in motion. Pulsing. A liquid current forging beyond time.


I am here, I am now

As I truly listen,

This is me in all my wants:

I love me,

Time electrifies me, glass doors thrown open wide. Exposing a landscape: As far as the eye can see—no fences, wild

flowers, rolling hills.

A playlist complete: filled with my music alone.

White clouds pass a celestial blue backdrop, each one the shape of my own desire.

I revel in my solitude, rolling naked through my challenges and endeavors. I leap through the unknown, bare and primal.

I walk through my day tall.

Eyes gently close in contentment.

A smile,

A reliability in my own play: Every stroke, my own choreography.

Yet still;

Fluid in motion. Pulsing. A liquid current forging playfully parallel to time.


I am here, I am now

My own fingers caress a territory so well known. A mastery, a gift: a familiar habit.

Conversely, to love another: A new mural—an opportunity for my fingers to seek. A stroke un-choreographed. A new song, each note I hear: mysterious, exotic. A blessed gratuity.

Another’s touch, incomparable—

A sumptuous memo that dances along an afferent pathway.

A storm of sensitivity in a single kiss. Lips are the brink of a strawberry sweet Niagara of sensation.

My own tongue inadequate for my lip’s insatiable appetite.

A tender nibble from another: the wind that lifts me weightlessly—throws me into a delicious release, from

an isolated existence.

An ocean will roll and churn indefinitely until:

The exquisite crest swells into a cascade in response to another’s shore.

I long to awake from a dream into a spooning embrace:

Another’s heart to place my ear against, one to shower with my fluidity;

Another’s heart to lace my exploring fingers around and hold with the previously attained master’s grace.

That of another:

An energy continuum.


Together we’d take each other’s hand and run wild through the flowers.

Yet—Until then:

A day complete: my life whole.

I hold my own hand. Respect and love in acknowledging, listening and honoring—the melody of my heart, my nature, and my inborn want:


That supersedes evolution.


A tribal drum beat.

Fluid in motion. Pulsing. A liquid current forging through mountainous barriers

Creating a canyon’s depth.


I am here, I am now

I hold my own hand.


Author: Adria Cannon

Editor: Caroline Beaton

Photo: Flickr

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Adria Cannon