And love . . .
. . . Yes, love,
I believe in you still
now, then, and always
as in forever, or as in for life
or longer.
I believe in you
and the highs or the lows,
or the ins and the outs
the ups and the downs,
or the back and forth
or the “for better
or worse.”
until death do us part.
Yet,
Not even death of the hour thereof
can take this from me
(or you)
nor can the hate I feel
nor the contempt
nor can my resentments stop me
or prevent me from feeling this way
for you.
And love,
yes love;
or the wildness of love
the tumultuous love, the chaos,
the crisis which comes everywhere
and even in the in-between;
then there’s the volatile love, or hostile
and flowering insanities,
violent like the sun when the heat picks up
or regardless of the cries, the tears,
and the irony of laughter (which is crazy too)
and comes after the post resurrection
of a kiss that takes away the blindness
or removes the rage to a subtle
and cellular rate of personal insanity,
appeased by the magical solution
of what we call, “make up sex,”
which, alas, is fine,
okay, or perfectly imperfect
because ah,
it’s love— and yes, this is wrong as any sin
known to man
and right as the rain
which comes down
to cleanse the earth.
I love this
Crazy.
I love that nothing is wilder than this
and whether I am right or wrong
fit or unfit
or if I am only fit to be tied
as if to be fit to be institutionalized,
then fine. So be it.
Convict me for my sin
or for my love
or my rage
or my need which is more outrageous
than any storm
ever seen.
I am no more nor less
nor am I perfect and yes,
I am faulted and flawed and
perhaps I am only failing
or drowning in a sense; however,
at least I am breathing,
which is heavy perhaps,
as in heated, or provocative, in which case
this means I need you like a fix,
trailing off like a dream
that slides from the path or reality
but to me . . .
everything about this
(or you)
is real
to me.
I believe in this
fully and yes, wholeheartedly,
as in completely or totally
or even better, maybe I believe in this
to the point where,
insanely, I am out of my head,
like the birth of chaos
or father to the mother of mayhem,
Perhaps I am unbalanced or maybe I am bizarre,
like some lunatic; or maybe, just maybe . . .
. . . I am a man in love
who cannot take “No” for an answer
or let this go,
or disappear, as if everything meant nothing
and then, of course,
nothing means anything to me
anymore.
Forgive me, please.
This is nothing more than an honest assessment
of my crazy life
or my crazy love
which gallops like the unstoppable horse
charging down my spine
to make me firm
or stand at attention.
I believe in the patterns of touch
and how insatiable this is,
as if to be incurable,
as if to want her so much,
or to want more,
or even more,
even if I were to be given more,
or if I was given the right to explore her,
as if to receive the gift,
to touch every inch of her, I would still want more,
because yes, my love is ongoing,
and hungry, needing, wanting, and yet—
my love is volatile,
or explosive and untouchable by hand
my love is not dangerous.
No.
While I claim myself
and admit to my explosions of the past,
my love is also calm to the touch
and soft, or gentle.
This is my love.
Mine is like the wind that comes in the evening,
when the moon is beaming
and the waters along the shoreline
reflect the moonlight in the ripples and the waves
of an outgoing tide
on the edges of an empty beach.
Yes.
I believe in this.
I believe in the sway of her hips
and the feel of her skin.
I believe in the need for her touch
or the taste of her tongue
the feel of her kiss,
and the press of her lips
against me.
I believe in all of this
I believe that yes,
love can create moments
that pause time
and in the time when this takes place,
even when tragedy hits
or when catastrophe strikes;
love still happens
and although the world spins around us,
nothing else matters,
no one else exists
and other than the embrace
or the connection of our skin
naked, together
or as we move closer
or become one;
I have come to realize this:
my love is the ever searching vessel
seeking to find the depths of her sea,
and while there are times when I am lost,
I refuse to abandon this ship,
even if this means that I will be lost
or abandoned forever,
because no matter how big the ocean may be,
I will not end this search
or fold my sails
until I reach her
or touch the lands of her heart.
This is love
and yes, I believe in this.
I believe in the sound of her voice
when touched or pleased
and yes, love,
I believe in you
I believe in you still.
I believe in the magic of her touch
or the thrill of her body which is why
I believe in the wildness
of our craziest love—wrong as it is
or right,
or regardless of how we defy logic
or the reasons why we are absent of sanity,
I believe in your life.
Your eyes
and in my rage to press onward
as if there could never be a reason to retreat.
And yes, I know.
I’m crazy.
I am and so is my unstoppable madness
which is incurable to say the least,
but I can promise you this,
which is that my love is real.
My love is pure and unrelenting.
Can anyone else promise you that?
I know who I am
I know what I have done
And I know where I’ve been
or where I’ve fallen,
and let you down—yet still
I am here,
running my ship into your seas
with hopes to find the reason to say, “Land ho!”
so that maybe, yes,
I can rest in the softness of your sands
where the beaches around your island
make you beautiful
or pleasurable
or both.
I believe in you the same way candlelight
believes in its own sway in the darkness
to which even shadows
are unable to cast their reflection
or shade upon your beauty,
because, to me,
nothing can touch you
and no one compares,
and even if anyone else should try;
none of that would matter to me,
because at last . . .
I have you.
My love
I believe in the feel,
the touch, the kiss,
and even amongst the mayhem
or despite myself,
or my imperfections—please, believe me;
I am only a man,
capable of such stupid
or idiotic things.
Hence,
I stand here before you
believing,
even if there is nothing left to believe in
because, yes,
I still believe in you.
Let the sky change
or let the world turn,
let the sea become angry
or let the clouds rain
and the wind blow.
Let there be a battle for this,
and whether I stand in victory or defeat,
or if my legs get swept from beneath me;
then at least I will still be me
and at least I can say that I stood for something,
or that I fought for something,
or more—
I can say that I believed in something,
which is namely you,
and gave you my all..
Please . . .
I am aware of my faults
and all my silly details.
I am aware of what makes me imperfect
or lacking, or less-than; but more,
I am more aware of you.
In fact, I am more aware of you
than I am of anything else. . . .
And though I stand, knee deep in the sea
alone, I find myself drifting
like a memory,
or like piece of my history,
standing in the waves
or in the peaceful current of the shallows
as two bodies, shoulders deep
connected by the madness of lust
which allowed us a moment
to make love in the sea,
regardless of the world,
regardless of who cared
or who was watching.
Love.
Yes, love.
Someday,
I promise I will find your shores
and when I do . . .
yes, finally,
the world will be on our side.
Right or wrong
crazy or not. Yes . . .
This is love.
The Written Addiction 