OK, I’ll admit it. I’m a hopeless romantic, and Will Pennington’s series of poems and fiction about Susanna captures lost love so poignantly that I asked if I could reblog his latest poem. To read more of the Susanna series, please visit Will’s site, and let him know your thoughts.
Is she the one, Susanna?
I do not know, Tomás.
You must know, Susanna.
Why, Tomás?
She makes me think of you.
She is not me.
I want you back, Susanna.
I’m dead, Tomás.
You died too soon.
Yes.
Why? Why? Tell me.
I do not know why, Tomás. It was my time to die.
It isn’t fair.
Life is not always fair.
Sasi makes me feel the way you did.
Then you must be with her.
What if I forget you?
You must forget me to be happy with Sasi.
I lost half of my heart when you died.
Then Sasi must replace that part of your heart.
No, Susanna. I can’t.
Yes, Tomás. You must.
I don’t want to forget you. You have the piece of my heart that makes me whole.
You must let me go, Tomás, so you can find love and happiness again.
No.
If Sasi is the one, she will hold the piece of your heart that makes you whole.
Yes?
Yes. Love makes the heart whole, not the person, Tomás.
Yes.
Do you love Sasi?
I’m falling in love with her, Susanna.
You must be fair to her, Tomás, and let her love you.
Yes.
You must forget me to love her, Tomás, or you won’t be happy.
Then I won’t be happy, Susanna.
Tomás.
I love you, Susanna.
I love you, Tomás.
– Will Pennington
Sarah Russell Poetry 
from a fellow hopeless romantic, this is heartbreaking and beautiful –
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I think there are several of us. Must be something in the Michigan water…
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Wow!
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Thanks for commenting, Ryan. The whole series is quite wonderful. The somewhat arched speech throughout is stylistically appealing, I think. It makes it almost like an instruction in letting go. If it were more casual, I don’t think it would work as well. It would come off maudlin.
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Thank you, Sarah. Your thoughtfulness touched me. The Susanna essays and poetry seem to come out of the blue. As you said in response to my comment on your post earlier today, they seem to write themselves. Once I put pen to paper, the ink knows where to flow ❤
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Funny. Sometimes I don’t give those “easy” poems the credit they deserve. If I bleed, the verse must be better, right? But then I go back to them after a month (or 6) and think, hey maybe there’s something here after all. Guess writing is like that.
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When the words flow, I feel the magic 🙂
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Oh yes. That’s when I feel like a real “poet,” not just someone fumbling around with words. But I still don’t trust the poems that are too easy. And do you have days, especially when you’ve had a drought of being able to write, when you start to “think” poetically again and everything you see could be a poem? I love those days!
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