From Sessions In The Balcony: Insomnia Poetry

I cannot say why or how or if I know for certain.
I can only say that I know my love is real.
I know my love is real because

I feel it.
It lives and breathes. It feels and it weeps.
My love is a laugh that I could not live without.
It’s a soft touch.
My love is the feel I get when I hear a name and I realize,
at last, I know I’m not alone.

I cannot say why or how things happen.
I am not sure why time happens with a twist
or why years will pass by and then one day,
we wake up, almost instantly,
and come to the understanding that above all—
love does not conquer everything,
but then again, love is not to conquer.
Love is this intuitive, interactive thing,
which is ever-expansive, always changing,
always adapting, and always growing.

I know my love is ongoing

My love is this thing I have,
which keeps me going
even while stuck in traffic
or weaving through crazy days
in bad moods
because as bad as it is . . .
at least I have this:
My love.

I’m not sure if we really ever know
what, where, why, or when

I’m not sure if one day,
we get a strange sensation that whispers, “
Someone is going to walk through the door,
right now,
and this is going
to change your life.”

There comes a time though
when you will hear a voice;
and the voice will be soothing to you,
magical, and unlike any other voice you’ve ever heard.
This voice will send vibrations through you
pulsing in a special frequency,
which you will feel—
with a surreal little chill through your body
as the feeling of butterflies
flutter in your stomach.

And when you hear this voice;
suddenly, you realize
you don’t ever want to go another day in your life
without feeling that same vibration
or enjoying that special frequency.

A day will come when you look into the eyes of love

and love will look back.
There will be a switch in you.
Trust me on this.
You will feel it inside.
Intuitively, you will know because
all the planets in your universe
(imperfect and all)
will suddenly align

My love is this—

My love is this thing.
It is a child that needs to laugh and play.
My love is the man in me that needs to be fulfilled.
My love is me reaching out to you,
to feel you, to see you, to hear your voice,
which triggers the vibration machine
and stats the frequency
that drives my engines.

My love is this thing what will never die.
I know that my love will survive lifetimes.
My love will survive wars
and blasts
and pain.
My love is this thing, which at night,
is sustained by the light of her beauty
(because she is beautiful.)

My love will never die.
That’s right.
And even if my love should die;
it would only die to be reborn
and in its afterlife my love is stronger
a thousand times over,
again and again,
until death do we part.

If I am to define my love; then please,
let me define her.
My love is a girl.
She is the frequency. She is my vibration.
She is my connection, my attraction.
My love is this thing that burns like a fire
which defies the wind.
If it were up to me, my love would outshine the sun,
because it does
and it does so without joyously.
In fact, the sun knows it’s me
and lets me be bright I choose
because when the moon comes
and when the dreams begin
my love sleeps beside me.
She curls to her side; nestles her face into the pillow,
she absorbs the cool blue of the moon’s glow
and ah, my love—

I know she is real.

Sometimes I would go to the beach, alone,
and I would stand at the shoreline
in the dead of winter.
The beach was seasonally vacant, like a ghost town,
forgotten of its riches
The beach was empty
I notices the the indentation of abandoned footsteps,
like fair-weathered friends
that only visit when the sun shines bright .
But the beach never minded
Instead, she just endures
because the understands the balance of the tides: sometimes the tide is high. Sometimes it’s low . . .
But out there, somewhere,
my love was like a single wave
just waiting to wash upon the shore

so I stand there . . .waiting

Even if she had to travel the entire sea
and go from one ocean to the next
I knew my love would find me . . .

My live is this thing, which I have.
It is all that I have.

It means everything to me.

How much do I love you?

Well, if this is all that I have . . . . .

. . . . . then let me give it to you.

Take it. It’s yours!


2 thoughts on “From Sessions In The Balcony: Insomnia Poetry

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