Do I make missteps in my ardor for you?

 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.

Long distance

I’ve never held you in my arms but I know your touch. We are souls long parted and now have found one another. And still, somehow, cannot make it to each other.

I feel a fool for not coming to you. To hold you close, our breathe mingling in the spring air. Would I be welcome? Or is it like most things and my heart is leaping past logic, knowing only that we are connected and needing the electric spark of our touch to be made whole.

That I love you is indisputable. Are you calling me on to Avalon or are we sirens calling to each other. I will not harm you, I swear it. But how can you take my word?
I could send you to people who know me. Who can say that my Alar is strong. That my word can only be broken if I am broken.

I suppose I just keep on and hope.
Though some days, some hours, some minutes, I am wracked with pain from a distinct lack of you.

I’ll see you in your dreams.
I love you, Goddess of my Heart

The maelstrom calms

And I shall blossom like a star
Firmament made light
Radiation spilling out
Beyond control
Beyond caring

Elation made tangible
Joy singing the choral notes of a universe
Speak a voice, whiskey stained
Answered by another yet unknown

Make fast
A storm is raging
Not of destruction
But a joining

And all else, sleeps

Laying in bed, unable to sleep, alone

I sometimes think, “I’m just this mad thing. Bound up in desires impossible to realize. Trying to get others to see, to accept, impossible beauty, impossible desires, so that at some point I won’t be alone.”

Its weird to think this way, I think. Weird to hope this way. To jump then question the decision. To fall in love, then hope they are in love as well. All of these thoughts bouncing around in my brain and mostly I want a few minutes of silence. Or, if not silence, then to speak with my love. The person I love. About anything, everything.

That last is the most normal.
Which brings us to why do I care what seems normal. It’s simple. Confirmation bias. Artists and open minded types surround ourselves with similar people. So much so that mainstream ideas seem foreign. And because they do, we are less likely to engage in those areas. And as we pull away, we, ourselves, become foreign to people in the mainstream. This leads to a problem. Our audience for our art should be able to reach as many people as possible. Not because as many people as possible enjoying the work is the goal but because reach means that the people who need to read the piece or hear the poem are more likely to do so.

These are the places my mind goes when all I really want is to be with you. To hold you. To learn you. All the things we need to be successful in a relationship. See? Overthinking even in the face of my desire to simply be with the person I love

Poetry and the future

I wrote yesterday about a poem I had written for someone who I longed for who never quite returned my affection.

Today, I write about all the future poems that I will dedicate to the Goddess of my Heart.

I know, I know. Every artist dedicates at least one work to a current love. It’s inevitable. We are passionate about our work and passionate about our loves. It is inevitable that the two would intersect.

But I’ve dedicated many works to her already. Anything Hash tagged GMH is about or for her. Dedicated to her.

I’m a romantic. We all know that. But I know she reads these. And that is the best feeling. That she reads what I write. In some ways, everything I write is in dedication to her. She captivates me. I sometimes feel like a complete idiot. Because I write her and I ramble, as I am wont to do, and I think I sound like a fool. Maybe not, maybe I just sound romantic.

It’s the duel nature of the artist and critic.
Perhaps, I’m overly harsh in this regard.

But here I go, rambling again.

Poetry. It’s sometimes as little as a sentence and I am something of a minimalist, trying to distill down to the essential words. So that there is space for the reader to project themselves into the piece.

With every conversation
Your words etch into me
Taking up residence
in my safe places
Where my becomes our