The metaphysics of love

Painting by Juan Medina

What happens after love?

Weightless I lie with my heart
in my hands, immersed in prepositions,
dilemmas, wh-questions, longing for a second life,
a second chance, a second something
which I know not how to name
for I am too exhausted to reduce
my doubts to a metaphysical question.

What part of me continues after love?

No part of me shall survive. I do not own
any part of me and everything I supposed I knew
about myself disappeared after my ultimate reality.
I can't even speak about you:
I couldn't register you in my mind other than vague,
ephemeral images of an impossible-him.

Yesterday I read Sartre again, trying to find
a philosophical answer but nothingness is a condition
of my being. My (il)logical contradiction is beyond
your ability to understand my black eyes and
sunburned brain.
Maybe I am tender contradiction uncovering
your paradoxes.

After love, Schopenhauer is here with me
in a trap of nature, making love with my theories
and atrocities.
I don't feel anything. My transcendental Will
just wants to sleep and there is no hope for tomorrow,
only some didactic phrases spoken in between my teeth
when somebody asks me about the metaphysics of love.


After love, only the preposition remains.




Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012