I thought about Love today, you know, the one with the cursive capital ‘L.’ The
one that writes on my marble brown eyes “Where’d my keys go? Oh, in the car… oh.. in the ignition” while beating an italic “fucking idiot” into my head, then finds my hand with hers, my fist already angry, already so knotted that the punch marks across my knuckles flush bitter wine red. Wrapped around my palm, shes soothes from finger tip to glass scar, an ocean’s tranquilizing tide up and down my wrist.
The same one that ensnares my sleeping body with hairs redder than the heart from which they grow, like poison ivy catching fire on my midnight body, her blackstone wall. And the one that holds my marbled gaze with hers, a green like fire catching poison ivy.
It’s too special to share. It’s like a metaphor.
To which Love replies “I am not.”
“I am neither too special nor a metaphor”
“I cannot be defined, encompassed, likened to, or explained.”
“Oh, but I exist. Just ask your fractured heart.”
To which I defend, “You know I know that.”
“But if all you do is pierce my soul through
my heart, what use have I for you?”
To which Love declares, “I am the only one
that you have accepted as real beyond yourself.”
“To accept me is to sacrifice your soul’s deepest doubts.”
“When I whisper I love you, that sweet nothing,
that soft something, is an earthquake vibrating the truth
through my ear canal that this magnificent desolation
is the everything that can be real. Everything that can be.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Something.. nothing. Everything.”
I am not my waist size. I am not the length of my hair. I am not my appearance. That is only scraping the surface. I am much more. I am the words I write, the words I read. The art I like, the art I make. I am my soul, not my body. Don’t try and change that.
I thought about Love today, you know, the one with the cursive capital ‘L.’ The
one that writes on my marble brown eyes “Where’d my keys go? Oh, in the car… oh.. in the ignition” while beating an italic “fucking idiot” into my head, then finds my hand with hers, my fist already angry, already so knotted that the punch marks across my knuckles flush bitter wine red. Wrapped around my palm, shes soothes from finger tip to glass scar, an ocean’s tranquilizing tide up and down my wrist.
The same one that ensnares my sleeping body with hairs redder than the heart from which they grow, like poison ivy catching fire on my midnight body, her blackstone wall. And the one that holds my marbled gaze with hers, a green like fire catching poison ivy.
It’s too special to share. It’s like a metaphor.
To which Love replies “I am not.”
“I am neither too special nor a metaphor”
“I cannot be defined, encompassed, likened to, or explained.”
“Oh, but I exist. Just ask your fractured heart.”
To which I defend, “You know I know that.”
“But if all you do is pierce my soul through
my heart, what use have I for you?”
To which Love declares, “I am the only one
that you have accepted as real beyond yourself.”
“To accept me is to sacrifice your soul’s deepest doubts.”
“When I whisper I love you, that sweet nothing,
that soft something, is an earthquake vibrating the truth
through my ear canal that this magnificent desolation
is the everything that can be real. Everything that can be.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Something.. nothing. Everything.”
And I tremble.
I love you truly, Lisa.
Yours truly,
David
We all want to be defined by what we accomplish in our life. But what if we feel we don’t get enough accomplished? Then what?
I am not my waist size. I am not the length of my hair. I am not my appearance. That is only scraping the surface. I am much more. I am the words I write, the words I read. The art I like, the art I make. I am my soul, not my body. Don’t try and change that.