My Fight for Love

What is it?

Stringing madness. An inferiority complex. A clichéd, struggled kiss in a summer rain on a city sidewalk. Grandiose? Multi-syllabic.

A truculent desire to rip humanity’s vulnerability from their throats, which persistently mislead with humor and misdeed.

A gentle susurration pressed into my cotton pillowcase. A fear of flight.

No.

My fight for love is not poetic. It does not want to be noticed. It does not need to be spoken about. No monumental or maudlin displays.

It simply wishes to be lived.

How often are we stuck in a purgatory of stagnation? We come up with words like “saudade”, which means we long for something that has been loved and lost; a decaying, former lust. We pray for change. For society to wise up on its own. We plant trees in hopes of new growth. We remain obstinately optimistic.

But optimism and pride never delivered us to the doorstep of truth. Not once.

Words and feelings never have, either.

I’ve done this wrong my whole life. Pleasantly grateful for each opportunity to learn. Degrading my human worth based on the lack of others’ affection or approval.

Love is not about us, while being entirely about us. It doesn’t want to be praised or pedestaled so high it’s out of reach. It doesn’t want to be looked upon by sympathetic and horrified eyes like a beached and bloated creature.

It wants to be lived.

Caviling each other’s motives with complete disregard for their capacity to love. Commending our intelligence when we make decisions that break us from the bonds of romantic or familial anguish. The human condition.

To live love is to be love. Not to find it or create it. Not to write about it or decorate it. It’s not apocryphal like we believe. It is because we want it that we cannot have it.

Love has always been there. It just doesn’t fit the mold of our ego’s view. Askew in our perceptions, it is like the man who couldn’t fathom three dimensions because he lived in two.

It is not a decree of promise, nor recordings of random acts of kindness. Love is only asking that you stop talking about it and start doing it. To cease being a demimonde of lovers and become warriors of life. Proliferators of humanity and the ethereal cosmic entity that encapsulates our silly stories and lofty ideals. Not to be so serious all the time, but to know that the only reason why we all struggle with winning love is because we fight for it all wrong.

We get to choose how and why we fight for love. So many styles, all the while, some are successful, some needlessly tormenting. While love should be appreciated, it never needs to be more than in the moment, radiating floridly, with impression not intent.

If I am love and live like I am love, then I never have to find it. Living love is a fight each day when pangs of animosity and malign atrocities tear up entire cities, render human hearts to tenderized meat, pumping life through us we wish we didn’t have to wake to see.

But there’s bravery in living love, which is why it is a fight for which I will armor myself, will never give up on, no matter how many times I think I might.

A fight is only a good fight if it is done right.

Summer’s Gone

Drops of luminescence beat the ground

After a cold night

In a Spring sun

 

I awoke with frost on my heart

Warm, tired tears

In a sunless, embracing bed

 

We always seemed shocked and angered

by the snow’s fall

After a pleasant day

 

I’m done being fooled by the chill,

by the icy words

that follow a once enchanting summer

Watched Pot

She witnesses the world around her opening up,

Like the way clouds of stained color disperse from herbs,

Slowly stretching out swirling arms across a mug of tea

 

Everywhere, everyone is seemingly living,

Achieving greatness or losing sanity,

But doing it magnanimously

 

She sits, waiting for the unfurling of her own imagined fate;

Darting eyes wondering if the next moment or situation will be the one to

Change things drastically

 

She learned young,

A watched pot never boils

Among the Living

White petals curled in afternoon sunlight

Rutilant eyes, surprised by morning’s gentle crest of

Whispering, echoing bird calls

The urging tickle in your throat;

The throbbing longing in the chest;

A coming of age for the soul to drop

Those dampening robes of complacency

To join the simple song of humming cars,

A trickling stream, two lovers’ dreams, and kids on swings

To be again among the living

and breathe the purity of euphoria

Midnight Tare (11.13.06)

On a night when pharmacy fills the air

I lay here in midnight’s tare

Which I dare suck in, in subtle fumes

Ruins are my slackened form, complacent and subdued.

Entertained by thoughts of you,

Kindred and calming, like the moon’s wax and waning

You’ve been there all along.

Amorously I long for this loss of weight

To be cradled in your nooks, be the

Voice of your song.

Time is dissipating along with my pain

Like nights where love belongs.

 

Lingering in midnight’s tare,

Breathing passion in quiet anticipation

Entertained by thoughts of my counterpart,

The wall built, and the mason.

It divides us, now, while you lay unconsciously apart.

But constructs made cannot deter me;

Rapt with invading sleepiness, I dress my dreams,

Prepare for night to end, the fading star’s gleam.

 

I confess my intimacy with you has me relaxed and sweet

A smoker’s midnight daze and

Two lover’s single heartbeat.

 

 

 

 

Raw (11.30.15)

Your lips last night convinced me

How real love can be

How desperately it is felt

How passionately it is fulfilled

 

When time creates tender touches,

It flows into the room,

Into tousling hair and kissing finger tips and

We make the quiet between our breath something sacred,

Something treasured

 

Irrational love knows that every second of waiting and longing

Was worth this small sliver of time,

This lack of sleep;

That it was worth

The intensity of the heartache of your leaving footsteps and

The lingering spell of bliss in my thoughts

 

So many perfect moments spent in your arms and this

Was a trophy on the shelf

A reminder of why I love having a body

Am thankful for sight, hearing, and touch

Why it’s near impossible to ever let go

 

Real cannot be feigned and

Feigning is never reward enough

For I’ve found millions of seconds could pass and

Your kiss always tastes better than ecstasy,

Your touch more relieving than massage,

And your presence as raw as

Two hearts exposed in the privacy of each other’s bare embrace

 

Never Be (4.28.15)

This too good to be true feeling

Usually one no one wants to believe

We’re different

It’s our whole premise

The very definition of our romance,

So sweet, so generous and real,

Is that it can never be

Manhattan Afternoon

It was the way your voice lifted and softened

when you spoke about the chestnut in my eyes;

The bit of yellow you found, and

seemed to be lost in;

The kiss that followed;

The braided embrace

 

By the waters of Manhattan

time slowed down

One of the prettiest and

most sincere moments

we’ve shared

Shouldn’t We

Shouldn’t we always know it won’t last?

That girl, curled under her blanket,

Sleepily murmuring romantic ideals to a man

On the other end of the phone who

Returned each and every one:

 

She didn’t know.

She had forgotten, somehow.