My heart beats . . .
. . . and here’s why.
There is a glow about you,
like an archway above your mind
and all the angels who sing
have claimed to know you
all too well,
like someone who was placed in our lives
for one specific reason,
and eventually revealed
throughout the burdens of time.
However, the angels did say
that your voice is enough
to placate the strains of our common society,
which is not so common anymore,
nor is society as common as it used to be.
No—
We are all worn from our battles
and shaken from our bouts with mass hysteria.
But you, no,
you are nothing short of heaven sent,
I swear.
You are the fingerprint of hope to me,
and like the scattered footprints in sands of empty beaches
somehow, Heaven sent you, that is,
if there is a Heaven of course, which there must be— I swear,
there has to be because (of course)
you are real, as in, I can touch you and see you
which means that you exist
for more reasons than one—a least to me,
which is what leads me to my question.
What lead you up to the stars like this?
How does serendipity work?
How does an unplanned discovery
open dreams to a new level
and take my hopes to a new atmosphere.
But please,
before I go on,
let me say that I am sorry if I am too much.
Please understand that I am simply a child
who never had the chance to play
or share my toys or, as well,
I am that young teen who never learned to dance
or have a high school sweetheart
and missed the prom—hence,
I apologize for jumping at the chance
because now that my dreams are within reach and
I can touch them with more than just my fingertips,
I want to touch everything
and see the world and everything that exists.
I would not say that this is being overly or too zealous
but more openly, or should I say honestly,
my lust for life was hidden for so long
and now,
or now that I know you,
or if there is a chance to know you
more than just in my dreams,
I want to achieve my dreams
in one by one fashion, until there are none left,
which means,
I can always make more
now that I have you.
But still,
how did you find your path
to see the world like you do
and when does the next bus come,
or wait, is this like a trip
that only the chosen can take, and if so,
how can I be chosen—or am I already chosen?
And, if so,
how did the stars align in such perfect patterns,
and how did timing do its trick, like magic,
and how can people swear off and deny
the truth of serendipity
which is the only logical explanation
that shows me why you’ve been placed in my life,
like a message from fate.
It has me thinking, and all too often,
about the way life works
or how this big conveyor belt keeps moving,
which is Earth, by the way, 365 days around the sun
and somehow, we find each other
out of nowhere, as a sign
and timing placed us here,
in a sea of billions yet,
it amazes me how time overlaps
and life intersects, but
no one seems awake enough to notice this
(except for you, of course).
My chances have dwindled some.
But that is something
that happens as we age.
Opportunities are fewer now
which means that I have to pay attention
and look for the open windows
instead of bitching about the ones that closed,
or fail to let me see the hills over in Hollywood.
Can you see now?
This is why I offer my apology
because I know that time is finite
and my moments are limited,
which means that if I can,
I’d like to make every moment count.
And that’s why . . .
That’s why my excitement is uncomfortable to me
because I am showing myself
in a thousand ways
and each way has been hidden for so long
that now that I am free (or revealed)
I want to show you everything.
I want to experience everything
and not be afraid of the slant in my smile
or the imperfections of my teeth.
I want to be outside and free
and away from the prison bars “of self,”
so that I can be free.
I’ve never done this before . . .
let my bare feet touch the grass
in fields where dreams
are like small dogs,
happy and running.
I swear—
A man can only shake his fist at the sky
for so long. And I,
I have shaken my fists and my head
and if I could,
there are moments which come to mind
and if it were possible,
I would go back to the old me of yesterday
and grab him by the shoulders
and shake him around and ask, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
How do you let Heaven walk away from you, son?
I don’t know, Dad,
I guess I was too scared to touch her grace
and find out
she wasn’t meant for me.
If I could go back and shake some sense into me
I would
But I cannot
nor will I sit here before you, humbled and vulnerable,
or exposed in such a way
with my heart on my sleeve; or undressed in a sense
and look to relitigate the past
or try to defend myself from old,
or undefendable things.
Hence,
I have no defense.
Just a request for forgiveness
because behold,
the hours are moving
and time is an unstoppable trick.
(Understand?)
You are gold and silver,
and you are the mist in the morning,
like when the sun comes down
on the first real day of spring
when life resumes
and the color from lifeless trees
bloom to reemerge
and the colors of life
restart in the gardens of an imperfect Eden.
You are more than my spirit
and more than my hope
and yes, you are more;
to which I say the world “more,”
like a crowd who begs with applause
for the encore of a solo
and I say “more”,
like the person who yearns for their next trip into euphoria,
and more,
like the person who has found their way from pain
and seeks more because finally,
the pain is gone and, at last,
the storm is over.
We made it . . .
I do not sit here with any sort of inaccurate version
of life or you, and nor will I allow myself
some unrealistic daydream because life is work
and so is love;
however, there is a light, which comes from you,
and which hovers above you,
which causes you to glow
or shed your beauty
in different rays of light
and even if you are only luminous to me,
then so be it.
Let this be for me
(you, I mean)
because I can see now.
Clearly too.
I can see why the angels who sing
will claim to know you
all too well, because after all,
it was them who sent you—and while life has a way
of shifting our pieces in temporary patterns,
somehow, you have been placed before me
with chance to be forever.
Ah, the hands of fate, the whispers of destiny.
They speak in different dialects sometimes,
which is crazy if we think about it,
because some languages are universal;
like, say, love for example.
I speak love. I speak this well
(When I allow myself)
I speak this from the heart too.
I speak from my heart and from my mind
and from my soul and to you,
I would like to speak with you
in different versions of touch,
that is, if I may.
I would like to let my fingers
trace the outlines of your body,
as if to draw you, or trace the lines of your curves,
or to touch the sway of your hips
which, to me,
are all features of your beauty.
If I may, then please allow me
the entry to your world, to appear and reappear again,
and to act like the rise and fall of the tide,
or to feel your beath
as your chest rises and falls,
while it’s pressed against mine.
I would like to offer this—
The lights go out, the moon is full,
and you and your legs, your body and your heart
and soul are wrapped around me—and me,
well, if I’m being honest,
I am wrapped around your finger
in love and breathing, feeling everything
and seeing the sunlight come through the curtain,
just to be alive each day
as I wake up next to you.
By the way,
have you ever made love in your mind
a thousand times;
only to want this more and more each time,
and yes,
this is me,
insatiable and hungry.
Thirsty as ever and waiting for you,
so that I can inhale your breath
and breathe again.
Ah, the hands of fate
and the whispers of destiny—you do so many things
to keep me wanting more
or to keep me coming back to this dream,
which I have dreamed a thousand times
and still—it’s not enough.
I want more
like a man in need of a fix
or like a magician on the search for their trick
or like someone on the dangle of a habit,
and to be clear,
only one thing can cure this need.
It’s you.
and last, before I go
you asked what makes you different
from everyone else.
My answer is this: Everything!
because that’s who you are to me.
My Everything!
The Written Addiction 