might it be your G-d given to gift to love me like you do into this threshold of quiet engagement? for what will come towards us is beyond us and as we sail off and away, you hold me dear and whisper harsh realities in my ear. let it be known: our differences create respect in the name of what each of us finds important buried beneath fingernails and deep within wounds in places others won’t see for these are our moments to push back against what already reminds us of our beauty and purposefulness. we just beat on like desert bears against the storm in this time of fate and maybe nots. thank you for pushing me and loving me for what I am dealing with is beyond my understanding. your capacity to be redundant with me has got me baffled into a sultry frenzy, got me kissing every freckle mapped on your back because while in your strong arms there is a place for me to cry, in your eyes there is no where for me to hide.
This is your Sunday evening reminder that you can handle whatever this week throws at you. Even if school, work or general life isn’t okay, you’ll get through it because you are damn strong and amazing.
I write because somehow I need to grasp at mortality, motivated by this invincible medium that makes people go crazy and wake up for it and deny a lover for. The world is an antagonizing mistress and I want to penetrate through her with words sublime that make people tick and shake to the sounds they can make by virtue of the placement of my alphabets. I’m so lonely trying to make the world mine cause she’s a blazing beast who sometimes lets me in to believe someone is reading, somebody wants this, somebody over there feels these feelings and needs my clarity to save their own smaller universes, their towns, their families. This is me trying to live forever because I have seen Death and She is not a man in a blacksuit with a black hat, She does not always wait at your doorstep… Sometimes you can make friends with her and work something out to plan a banging going away party… Only sometimes though.
What’s one more fuck in the name of no end if someone else beckons you with warm brown eyes? But if to touch another left me empty as most once-and-for-alls go, then I will not submit myself to temptation. It is in the hands of a lover I’ve known to feel who frees me silly, honoring the work we put in and crediting longevity for it’s shameless relentlessness that I have found my limitless surrender. Some people fuck one person forever others fuck everyone, and some fuck few and far between while others choose not to because their lover has passed or something. It’s a choice we all make for ourselves…to free ourselves and set the other up, across and away but sometimes one party earns more and that’s why you do it again and again to whomever once, or all over again.
Our love has crippled itself into smaller braces for it cannot quite compare itself before the mad lovers: brash to the pulse of it’s fleeting nature, desirous of the constant affirmation that this is it, s/he’s the one, the person I will forever feel young and invincible next to. I tend to affiliate myself with the Laughing Lovers Party: the ecstatic pair with a palpable passion who shares feasible cynicism that cannot go away and may get in their way because tomorrow is a tempting shrew, a seemingly plain apple. These days are to be filled to the brim with selfness to the point where I can’t stand looking at myself in the mirror anymore. I am completely satisfied knowing I have a man who will love me probably forever and yet it doesn’t mean we assume ourselves to be greater than the tide that is eternity. Love moves near and further away at a moment’s notice.
Ya see, I may have loved too many men once and never again to finally figure that what I got is someone who fits and sticks to lick every itchy part of me that I somehow cannot reach. And it’s hard. It’s hard to stop looking at myself in the mirror to then find myself reflecting in his blue, sometimes green eyes. Love suspends judgment and yet I get in the way of it all every now and then.
Back to the defenselessness I feel for being a lover, loved. I accept that this is the time and this is where I am; we found each other in this dustbowl of a town somewhere between Sunset Boulevard and Glendale to swap spit in a random room we have nothing to do with anymore. God made a circle around us in pencil that night, never pen. And this is the difference. I am a young American Jewish feminist with a desire for children and yet I abstain because I have dreams worth more than a theater education should ever cost. I have a past guilting me into tomorrow. This is my problem: I am more of a daughter than a wife lest to say, a mother. Am I supposed to surrender, resist or be? Most likely, if it ain’t broke, I probably shouldn’t fuck with it. So I won’t force expectation upon this love like a lock with no key.
I won’t marry just because I love him. I won’t leave because I like the exhausting seeking of never satisfactions. I will love him as hard as I possibly can. Foolishly! Love is a bottomless pot of coffee and sometimes you have to wait for the drip to finish when the mug empties, but it’s free and so I usually keep sipping until the acid eats at my stomach and I fall asleep from the caffeine I no longer depend on to stay awake in this love affair that keeps me salivating for more every time he hurts my feelings because he cares, and every time I am reminded of our differences, or every time I find myself submitting to the woman I would hate to look back at myself as because he pushes me back with love and that’s not an easy pill. In this love I have him but mostly, I have me. So I stand tall against all of it as love pains me in the gut or laughs at me when I fall on my butt. He has committed himself to reflecting the woman he loves through his 20/20 eyes. And I really trust him. I love to look at him. I love his hands. His voice is my safety. It’s scarier to not lock it in to just let the wind breathe with us or take one of us away with it and that’s why we are the true pursuers of true love: nostalgic of the great generation and how they loved each other in pairs but without the inked out promise people of all love shapes fight for. We have carved each other’s names upon our parts although I do find it rare we ever acknowledge it’s weight in exchange for being young and fun despite it’s overwhelming grandeur to declare it as a tender whisper coming from one and to the other endlessly as “I love you so much and you fucking know it.” That’s enough for me.