I love you moving, this instinctive feeling, to find
ourselves mourning—through this cold winter, a bit too plain, as born this
furnace of woes. We pretend and dance, where pain is vivid—this tragic play; to
know for mishaps, as to know for joys, but still a jaded night; as to wrestle
thoughts, as vague as love, as searching for motives; because love is partial,
as fending for self, unlike a mother’s hug; even this is gray, as to have a
child, for that person to need and love; this unconditional pain, where neither
can leave, as men come and go as they choose. I’ve lived this cycle, pleading
for pleasant moments, as one privy to madness: those sudden outbursts; that
languished disposition; that emotional blackmail; as to die this life, to see
self in motion, as to realize a deep defect; but this is nature, a fraction of
life, as manipulated dearly; while a child mourns, to witness monopoly, this
board dictating life; but more to joy, that walk through meadows, that pausing
to sniff a rose, or more a tulip, as to watch for rain, or more for pain, to
draw this woman, as she sits through misery: our long goodbyes, our gravid
souls, our poetic measures; as gifted to lose, as cherished to win, where our
blessings come as curses; this deep paradox, as charmed to perish, as awakened
through precious eyes. I love us moving—this panic to live, as to expect a
first child; that liquid feeling, as to trust this soul, with everything a soul
can give. I love us breathing, peering into art, watching as lines morph—into
something grand, this inner romance, this beachfront enchantment; as born this
love, forbidden to forfeit, as to carry the weight of commitment. Its true this
light, our dearest rain, as measured by sin!
