It is easy to say that love is a choice and not a feeling. Because we want things to be one thing or another. We want uncomplicated and simple solutions. But this leads us to believe that if we no longer feel love that we should just choose to be with the person because we are choosing love. And that is fucking dangerous.
Yes, love should be a conscious choice. Don’t allow your feelings to rule but when your feelings of love are gone, it should be a flag to examine why.
Because love is a choice but the kind of choice it is, is to see. To see all that a person is and choose to love them. In the best way, it is to allow one’s feelings to develop from seeing who they are and each day realizing why you love them.
Now. That shit is easy to say. And some days it will be all you can do not to be super fucking annoyed by everything that they do, but the feeling of love will pull you through. And on the obverse side, if all you have is the feeling of love without the reasons that you love them….observe that. Because if you feel love but there is no quality in them that makes clear why, or if what you once loved has worn away and has been replaced by fear, uncertainty, and doubt…well that’s dangerous…
You haunt my dreams
A regular reoccurance
who is anything but regular
As slow as you want
I feel that I must. Like I am making mistakes but that, perhaps, you forgive them silently. Do I say ‘I love you’ too often? I feel like, at once, I say it too much and that it can never be enough.
I wonder if I send you too many missives? I do send several a day, most days. I don’t want to wait to write it all and send it all at once, but rather send when my thoughts are freshest. But I know, maybe, it is exasperating.
I think I must be tiresome to deal with. Am I? To have someone constantly sending you little notes and posting things and just all of it.
I dislike feeling like I am being burdensome. And even writing this, I can’t tell if I need reassuring or if I want information. But either way, it feels like…I don’t think weakness is the right word. But something close. Like I can’t hold my own or something. Which I know isn’t true, but feelings care so little for knowings, sometimes.
When I want to write a poem but can’t seem to find the key to start, I begin to feel a yearning for the release of writing. It is almost lust. Very much akin to desire to touch and be desired and to lose ourselves in our bodies. Those moans of pleasure and need, giving over to mindless rut. Until payoff and, for me, emptiness. In sex, when I make the destination instead of the journey the goal, I feel empty, cored out after. When I write, I feel empty after but somehow hopeful and lighter. It’s not poetry but at least it’s something. Writing a piece like this leaves me both satiated and hungry for something more. It’s not what I wanted but it’s what was available. But the poem is what I want. Like having vanilla sex but wanting complexity. Or wanting to hear your voice set in orgasm and never quite getting you there. Disappointing, somewhat enjoyable and also, not enough.
The harsh razorblades of words that rush out
carving a bloody painful path through flesh
living manikin cast free of form
to dance in blaze down the overgrown roads of the mind
pain and pleasure warring
roaring to become one
in the dripping pageantry of other minds
while I lay broken and empty waiting
hoping to hear