(no subject)
Dear lover,
If we counted the times I've tried to reach you, it would either be impressive, or depressive.
I know you're out there somewhere. I know that I speak only truths so you'll hear my voice and know . I know that I don't wear masks anymore, so you won't mistake me for anything other than yours when you see me. I wait patiently, knowing that it may take my whole lifetime to find you again.
I used to think there was a time when I could articulate and intimate the way my mind works, well enough that you could understand me. I'm no longer certain of my facility, but I will try, maybe one last time to delineate the crooked corners of the maze more clearly. Lest you stumble down this rat's warren of a psyche and lose your way. But beware, it is not a hospitable place to be lost. There is no way out, but through.
So onward..
Quite simply: I love to smile. And to laugh.
And it was first when I used to spend hours thinking how I might get your lips to part. To turn the corners of your mouth upward, into so tight a grin, that all those precious teeth would show--! Oh! Hungry--To hear, your laughter, I would bide my time just so, to await a moment when you weren't looking, or only half-paying attention, to catch you off guard and induce a giggle. I have debased myself for less, for you--and would do so much more, again, and again, for you.
I knew at that moment, that I would never be whomever it was I was before. Where before I only ever wanted for myself--my most extreme desire is to see those pearly whites and hear those peals of rich, throaty, laughter. They might as well have been death knells, ringing out my demise. How could I ever move through life again, except in your direction? Except in obedience to your every whim?
Except there must be some counterforce to this superpower you have over me. I can't possibly forsake the world for you. Except I know that every deed and action I would repeat, by rote, but to please you. If I were to pluck a flower for you, and see you smile. I would gather them all. Every last one. And we would have, a world, devoid of flowers. And two very happy young men.
And yes, it would be a beautiful sight..you, a flower yourself, each day growing more fully into bloom-- face alit with joy at a flower. It would be the same way, someone might witness me, holding you.
I do give of myself to you, knowing the evenness of our exchange. On the outside, we would stay protected: Sign on the dotted line, with this ring: I be yours, and you be mine. But on the inside, fearing the truth: knowing that even if you were secretly crossing your fingers, I wouldn't be cross at all with you, even had I crossed my heart. Even had I hoped to die. I could never be cross. For lovers should never be held prisoner by their love, or the love of another. As much as I could keep you in this life, I could never take you with me when I move on to the next. And you, me.
So while we both inhabit this little stretch of time and space. Making sounds together that no one will ever hear. Stringing together words that no one will ever read-- let us do together, what neither of us can do alone and cleanse this unholy space with our sacred rituals. With hands, and hearts, and every body part. May we relish in our fruit, to the grave.