Love is a blindfolded fistfight in some sleazy alley at four a.m. when you are too tired to fight even though you’ve been taunting this bully your entire life. Love is the elevator music waiting room that you’ve been in, anticipating this fight – seething at this chance.
And the sound of fist and bone and skin smacking skin in a desperate attempt to spell-out some kind of violent sentence is the sounds of two bodies, two lives, and all the disparities you could imagine, colliding to begin a new symbiosis: a new relationship.
Some people go to church, I believe in you and I.
I implore you, paint me a picture of your screams?
I watch you sleep. (You know this and we joke about it because it is my guilty secret). But (in all truth): I watch you sleep because my exhaustion is no excuse to lose this moment. Yes, this one. Right now.
(You know this) Your eyes flutter in deep sleep, every now and then halfway opening because you see something more than I can understand.
When you are awake, you sometimes speak quietly (I banter about this with you when you are ready). But even when you are silent, I can feel you – clear across stadium rooms in the dead silent of a sleepy night and early morning. There is something magical about you that is not a trick, but simply because it is not a trick I am apprehensive because nobody, simply nobody has this kind of power without being mischievous.
And then the sun rises, and you are laying next to me. And hours later since our last words, you open your eyes and all I can do is exhale. And then, more than anything else, you are there. You. Are. Here.
Hi, you always say. Simply. Unobtrusively. As though there is no option for anything more complicated.
Your eyes are blue. But sometimes (I must confess) I mistake your kind of color for that composite of every color this universe has ever produced. Sometimes, in my delirium, (it is understandable when you are so many things to me, no?) I forget your name. Sometimes I forget your eye’s color (it is understandable when I have your whole body to look at, no?). Because, really, is there even a descriptor that is worthy of this kind of stamp?
Even cosmologists have missed galaxies when pondering the patterns in the mole-colored specks of life across your back.
Your eyes are Joy.
Your sounding symphony is Joy.
When, fucking when, did I cross that threshold between want and need?
And why didn’t anybody tell me that this would hurt?
Why didn’t anybody explain to me this ubiquitous vision – that love is lust’s rose petal decay? Love is sharp and thorny and colorless. This, when we color it red – the color of our blood.
Why didn’t anybody explain to me that Valentine was a martyr? And I am not even that great.
Luckily for me, I bleed this musical reddish, ruddish tone for her and my love, my girl, happens to adore these kinds of petals.
Do you not know that everything stands against us? Someday you are going to hate me and my name will not reverberate as music on the hills. And,
Do you not know that they are rooting us on in the same way that a triumph wavers back and forth between success and broken-nosed tragedy?
Yes, this is the same kind of black thoughts that I think in my lonely nights when you are too far from me and I can only find paranoid beliefs in the darkened idea that I have already called the vultures by screaming your name aloud to all, well before we’ve only begun.
(If they care at all) We are mostly entertainment. We are their dreamy, anticipated car crash. That train wreck. That fuselage explosion, that sinking ship on the atoll, that silver screen heart break catastrophe. We are waiting to happen. Yet, we are here, now. We are not waiting for anything at all.
You and I, are alive.
I said that I am not the poet that loves you in secrecy. I am the bard that shouts to the world: You are my girl. The one I love. And this, this is how I love you.
And then I pause, imploring your eyes to mine: I have crossed the threshold from want to need.
I am all yours.
Love is gore. Love is homemade repairs on wounds that bleed, bloody.
Love is all the secrets that you never had the bravery to tell anybody, all bottled-up in the object of your affection.
Love is every kiss and affection and story and everything, absolutely every little thing, that you have saved from every lover before me.
Now! I implore you, tell me all your secrets…
You know that sometimes I fuck you. Most of the time, I don’t.
But really, what I want you to know is that always, absolutely always, I wish we had an audience. I want people to see what we are doing, how we are fucking. I want to model this kind of love. I want to exhibit my ferocity. I want to illustrate how a girl loses her breath all while begging for more. I want to show all my universe how I love, passionately, unabashedly, without pretense and without qualm for looking like a naked frog perched above you, squeezing everything I can out of your most perfect body.
Afterall, we painted this museum, together. Fucking, together. I want everybody to see this color collage.
Yes, yes, I know: we are still not very good at all of this. We are still learning. Your orgasms are the gold standard and I am still just a prospector.
Still, you tell me how I fill you up. You tell me how I feel inside of you. And I,
I can barely speak.
Still, I’m waiting for you to scream.
Love is every insecurity, amplified. Made public. Love is your every infirmity naked with the robe of secrecy laying on the floor before you, in this conversation. Love is looking at that robe when you are laying face down, knocked out, and all you can see is that red velvet, crushed – the totality of your vision.
Love is this kind of pure terror with small moments of complete ecstasy. Somehow this is the only arena in your life where, miraculously, the bliss outweighs the terror. That is, if this is not simply an addiction.
Tell me, again, the formula and equation that brought us here at all?
I want to feel your love more than know it. I want to hear your words more than listen to them. Like the hum of my father’s Corvette, I want to feel your presence more than I want to know that it is, in fact, a concrete existence in this world.
No, we did not come at this in orthodoxy. Instead, and for some twisted reason, we have arrived at this presence in a backhanded intoxication. For this was not our Catholic blessing – we were not born to be gifted this universal love. We were not promised fast rides and clear roads. We were only promised an opportunity at this fight,
I love the idea of you wearing my cum on your body and dripping out of your cunt hours later, in public.
And I love wearing your mouth’s scars on my neck, on my body like a rifle wound through the shoulder. I want everybody to know that I have fought to be here at all.
I am your warrior. I am fighting for you. Tooth and mouth and scar and blood and perfection at all.
You cried the other night before you fell asleep. When you rolled over in the morning I was a new man.
Your man: delicately smashed to pieces, standing tall.