Men, women, and persons;
You enigmas of violence, misery, sex, and boredom;
How are you feeling?
To what end is your violence?
To what depth does your misery brood?
What comfort have you found in sex?
What madness does your boredom uproot?
If you're honest, I would guess, every answer, some way, stems from love.
Acknowledge this with me if you expect my intimacy.
We could have a tiny world, a modest one, all to us,
To paint our ideals, our passions, and secret wishes onto.
Caring for each other and nurturing the land
Our children, a family of colors, scents, atmosphere and earth.
We’d till and sow all our own way,
And grow a living dream, transcendent from every angle.
We’ll compose a landscape tuned to the mood of our time together,
Like living music to the moment we’ve adopted.
Seasons and years renew the youth of our creation,
So every day we enjoy new spaces of imagination to occupy together.
This is the world we birth with our own hands and thoughts,
Held together indefinitely, in reverie and splendor.
I need you to want a little sadness,
A mood for solemnity and a mood to let loose.
Have a few drinks with me and read to me from Camus,
And we can keep reserved within a golden light mood.
Cold, like the light reflected on the moon
As it illumines our bodies and tempers, and soothes.
I need you to want a little more
Than a body or a mind like mine could ever give,
With fanciful fears and desires you can’t forget
And a brooding reluctance and passion to live.
Days that should be swept away will come
When we lay collecting dust together, undone,
Till one of us decides we may as well have coffee
And we pull each other towards the day to be begun.
I need you to see my mind
The way I’ve already begun perceiving yours,
To note your weaknesses, strengths, and passions
So I might give assistance when it’s called for.
When I lose my place in space or time
And spiral into cacophonies of dreary thought,
I hope you’ll see the telltale signs
And have the courage to tell me what is and is not.
Romance, sex, companionship, and All,
Is a lot to ask and harder still to come across,
So I’ll ask if what you’re looking for is the same,
Because if it is, we may be able to reciprocate.
I sip and think,
Drink, play something simple,
And dream my day dry.
Always talking in invented memories
Between us, our friends, and in secret.
Maybe your face
Has become the placeholder
For someone I never knew but needed.
Maybe I loved
Someone too intensely
Without extending it.
I never picture us having sex anymore,
But I can’t help imagine us being intimate.
We should pretend we just met,
And become friends again
With better experience.
I want to brew a cup of tea
And let it go cold,
Forgetting it amid our busy hands
And lips consoling one another.
The rain spatter on the window
Being the only sound
To accompany our growing hunger
In the darkness of our room.
Lighting flashes throw light
In our eyes and against our bodies
As thunder breaks
Like the sudden quiver of a pleasant touch.
The storm pummels on and on,
And we’re drawing each other out
Until we’ve consumed every drop
And we drown into sleep, solemnly spent.
I’m tired of being Imoveably cold
But Warmth doesn’t seem to care for me.
He prefers hearts easier to reach
Over those guarded under lock and key.
Real invigoration is so infrequent
It melts me beyond the use of coherent thought.
It finds me at my most relaxed
And shocks my senses back to full alert.
A warning; If Warmth can reach you,
So can all sorts of volatile expressions.
Good intentions can’t diminish
The fragility of your intimate dimensions.
Born to grave sensitivity
I easily shudder in the light of friendship,
And comfort myself solely
In the snowy luminance of reflection.
The kind that sink into you like a sickness,
That grow into hooks strung between our chests.
We understand our world
By seeing it through each other’s words,
Our gazes and movements
Imparting wisdom only we can comprehend.
Reason and purpose,
They’re ours as disciples of one another.
In peace or war
We’re formidable as fortified emotions.
Tragedy is our past.
Romance is our blissful tragic future.
With cake and tension
We unload and collapse in each other’s voids.
Our dresses complimentary,
My blue, your red, wrapped in purple sheets.
We own our faults,
Our secrets our own to whisper in confidence.
Alive and secure within our bounds.
Could I ever be loved as completely
As the honesty of your sincerest introspection?
Mortality and eternity,
Subjects so situated in time
That occupy my emptiness
The way I wish I was admired.
Could I fill your mind
And terrify your sense of being
In such a way as to change
The reality of your inner quiet?
People are like night skies,
Shifting their position and meaning,
So when you gaze at me
I hope you think of what you’re not seeing.
We are mysterious and complicated things,
Too important for casual recognition,
And if I’m ever to be loved again
It must be worth our fullest attention.
From yourself to another.
Over and over, they call.
Love’s binds are strong,
Sapping energy for pleasure
Without discriminating costs.
Living for someone else
For pity’s sake alone
Breeds little satisfaction.
Bleeding without beauty
Wastes blood as worthless,
It blemishes the action.
Taste another’s pain
In passion’s good graces,
Experience real love.
Spend your support
With romance and wisdom
Or suffer from never enough.
Familiar bonds deep engrained
Exclusively expressed in obligatory superficiality,
As unspoken words of affection
Felt and understood in every awkward glance and gesture.
Lifetimes of re-enforced sentiment
Spent in care-free novelty and tumultuous tribulation.
Loyalty in our devoted blood
Rewarded only in our collective facile interaction.
Incapable as we are
To satiate our needs for attachment,
We gather nonetheless
To empower our familiar bonds.
Between our solemn personas
We’re tied to chains of intimacy,
Holding us together
As our identities are weighted down.