The Mistake Of Making It Belief

dear Monique, bold was my conviction of a love that I just knew
and I did in that time and place but it disappears as the truth
when you stop letting love be a feeling and make it a belief
when you think that it's a strive and forget that time's a thief

now I know it must fall to pieces, not us let to take it apart
we have to lose some of it, we can't keep it complete from the start
we could've kept it as we felt it but we've changed what it meant
and we'll say that we knew it but know it different than it went

it was grand to know it to end and wonder where it could go
but now we've taken it with us, if it exists we cannot know
did we plow a field already grown or sow a new season's seed?
have we now clipped and caged love's wings that we discovered freed?

my Monique, was our love made in uncertainty of what sought?
was it in then seeking we'll eventually see it picketed not wrought?
if love's beauty's in could well be otherwise but turns out is not
then love's disfigurement must be our making if only it were not

Past And Future Tense Faces

like dissolution of a relationship
it's just time that passes and places
and so ending a context leaves you sad
with two turned away faces
one's turned because it can no longer be
the other because it's unknown
and it's hard to tell if you approach either
if what you want they'll own
is it the past or the future calling
a friend said to me is nice
but the question can't be answered except
neither completely suffice
so you just sing and though the song ends
the melody with you stays
that's life you think just wondering
it could always be other ways

The Presents Of Possibilities

your presence has been only possibilities
now your absence slowly presents them too
but in a different way, perhaps more as change
of my world though, more than me will it ensue?

but what difference is between my world and me?
it seems who I want to be as will be perceived
and the thing is once the two were the same
but does a love make them inversely achieved?

I want to be the same for you as my friends
but everything tells me it's an impossible do
though I'm sure the strive will take me close
I'm foresighted with guilt my lies will be true

I want to tell my friends to love all of me
but who can when you can't love everyone?
I know friends aren't defined as being in love
but I'm planets, life's gravity and they're Sun

I don't fear change because I feel memory's
who I am and fuels me with reason to live
but I'm consumed with waiting and anticipation
not convicted what to take or how to give

and yes possibilities are what you can choose
but maintain control over you they still do
and because of the unknown; that which not chosen
you can't live to reap without sowing rue

Why Do You Love Me: An Essay

Why Do You Love Me?

To be asked, ‘why do you love me?’ is such an interesting happening. It must surely come up within almost every romantic relationship, where there is mention of the word love, or certainly after some period of time of maintenance of the relationship. It seems to me that it likely arises as a question verbalized from one of two, perhaps a combination of, thought processes. One of those could be a lack of or need for affirmation or seeking it, or perhaps in pseudo jest, for pampering of the ego. The other way could be out of a thought process of doubt, uncertainty, self-criticism or self-esteem issues.

I find myself gripped with positivity that I would never myself ask the question of an other because there is a danger in knowing the answer, depending on how it is delivered; and for the most part it is delivered as condition, despite the frequent denial of it so to the self and the other. That, for knowing, then makes one wonder whether it is productive or good or better or worse to feel the conditions of being loved, the certainty or doubt of them able extant aside.

For someone to lay out or try to explain why they love another is to ask themselves categorically the specific things, of which there are many that make up a person, that they identify as being characteristics greater in that person than in others. Knowing these things, whether they are true or false or allowed change or not or permanent or temporary inflicts the subject with a most likely back of the mind keeping that without them or for loss of them their being loved may be opposed, questioned or liable to dissolution. Furthermore, for the subject asking the question, if they are requesting so from a true uncertainty of themselves and what makes them attractive, desirable, great or anything they define as being loved for then it can possibly have the effect of growing their confidence or aiding their realisation of who they are, what they can be. Still, however, there is the danger of them fixing those things, those affirmations of why they’re loved, to why they’d be loved by anyone and the thereafter association of those things as forefront offerings to anybody whom they desire attention or affection from.

Personally, I do not believe I can justly answer the question, at least not at present and perhaps not ever because I am not convinced, nor convicted I know what love is. That the subject asking feels so, and must in order to ask the question, that they are loved is enough and should be so because that tells to me they are experiencing a feeling greater than they’ve known and can imagine knowing. Perhaps the question that is sought, veiled in the ‘why’ is actually the ‘how’. How do I make you feel? And that question is something for which there is only a very personal contention available. And so that does imply that love is not something able to be defined because it’s definition exists as different and fictitious in the way that we read fables or fortunes or poetry or song, the way that mirrors tell different truths to every eye and to every day.

I could come close to an answer, perhaps one to quell the need for hearing an acute response in, ‘I love you because you are exactly who you are and because of how you make me feel.’ To say other than this is to impose condition and it seems apparent that love should strive for the absence of conditions. But that answer also opens the doors for the wondering out loud of who am I to you and how do I make you feel. This brings me to the intellectual feeling that more than love, or perhaps what we truly define as love, is seeking and understanding who we are and how we can feel and what we do feel. Love is just what we call the mirrors that people are to us, reflecting the different, unseen, skewed, changing aspects, impressions and views of ourselves. And it seems the ones that reflect the most satisfyingly, profoundly, intensely are the ones we say we love, the ones we call love, because we are so overwhelmed by the visions and vastness and surprise and wonder if dream or not that we feel without vocabulary for expression.

In summation, though hardly truly conclusion for the endlessness of this issue and questions’ wonder, I love you because; you make me believe that love exists, draw me closer to the things that it might be and without you I would not feel the magnitude of myself that I cannot duly describe but wish to so fervently. Whether this is truth or not, whether you can understand its implication or not, is up to you but I would guarantee that you were unable or would be unable to, without pause, without momentary contemplation, without consideration to the extent of everything you know and can feel, respond seriously and with sincerity to the question yet remain without still feeling as though it was unanswered. If you’re the subject asking it, you would likely feel appreciation, gratitude and enough satisfaction in its response’s attempt. After all, maybe that’s the only reason it’s ever asked; to just hear a lover’s voice, wanting you, desiring to please you, drawing to be close to you. Listening to hear the sound of knowing who you both are, together.

The Silhouettes Of Memory's Pirouettes

looking through some photographs
of a time when I was in love
I felt this urge to race away
towards when the past was enough

because I've become reliant
on the moment feeding my lust
for life and living and feeling
but now the future beckons to trust

and it does so with a soft
touch of a lover's hand in dark
with their look that pierces
and the searing ways their gifts mark

is it truly the feeling of then
that I remember in these photos
or is it what I wished I'd felt
and maybe not again's knowing so

sometimes I think they write
with their eyes upon my heart
and what I feel is the etching
but can't read it til we're apart

and that's what this feeling is
being so close you cannot see
until shadows lift and move
and their figure shows complete

imagination lets your dreams
wonder away with silhouettes
before you know it you're dancing
and your memory remains in pirouettes

all I do is turn and over
many times the ways we'd come
together as lovers and the leaving
with which I never can feel done

Creeping As Dreams Let Seep

I grew to sleeping beside you,
sheathed, a couple of times a week
now as I try to close my eyes
your arms I can't help but seek
I think of your meek fingers
and how they mingle with mine
and the silence that arrives
with your breathing in no time
I try to remember when you weren't
my final thought before sleep
but it seems since our knowing,
through my dreams you perpetually seep
so you keep with me through nights
even if apart we have to be
and though distance some hinderance
each dream's nearer eventually

A Diamond For Trying

you gave me a ring
and asked we be wed
but something wasn't right

you slipped the diamond on
and I saw its weight shone
but could barely stand its sight

it didn't fit and as I looked at it,
I wondered out loud
what did it imply

and silence lingered a moment
and you hadn't spoken,
so I answered with a sigh

maybe love's like that,
you think it's perfect
and you're sure the ring will go

but sometimes you can't force it,
that's just the course of it
that you have to try to know

Loves' Letting

to a lover, once, I mentioned
that I'll never be one to settle
I don't need feel grounded or surrounded
by company to be in fine fettle
well love's not for rent ferocious they said
and I retorted well you make it your mortgage
I'd not want to try own what can't be aquired
love's not a home it's only a voyage
well some time passed and I heard news of them
they're going to their grave in debt
and I'm not far off myself but I'm sure of all I felt
and know it was letting for lack of regret.

Love Is Nothing

do you remember love started with nothing
in that way we'd say so at those glances
we'd spy with big eyes the little somethings
that lead to leaps and taking chances

I recall how love seemed out of our grasp
when neither of us could reach out a hand
but how falling slowly is a rewarding task
it's surer than stamping out ground to stand

I recollect the etched memory of our first kiss
in the way it was mutual the future from there
the trepidation and levitation of is this
going to turn tears of whether worth it to share

did I ever tell you how your bite stung
the second time we locked lips and you pulled
I think I hid it beneath what we'd done
under the throne of responsibility and rules

like all great histories there was a war
ours fought not on hallowed but fallowed ground
then in the night desire's white flags we saw
and realised the Grail never lost to be found

so it occurs me when you reach your eyes
out to mine through what seems to be a mist
that there's still nothing's truthful lies
calling out what you can't help but insist

and it keeps me then with the feeling
of having never ceased to be falling for you
'cause in so many nothings something's revealing
there's so much concealed for us to ensue

Always Watching, Often Waiting

it's hard to get around or over your brown eyes
the way they find and surround mine in photos
it's hard to know that you're somewhere else
and remember the way you once felt so close

in those moments just before we'd go to sleep
when love seemed to keep you through the night
and I'd wake up to see you softly watching me
with so much adoration contained in your sight

in my mind I race through these conversations
where I say to you, certain, how much you mean
to me and the way I still feel plenty for you
but they always end with I wish I'd foreseen

I have these dreams every now and then of those
hopeful, wide open, deep ocean seeking eyes
meeting with mine as the beginning and last
thing I'd see each day and contemplate the size

of our involvement had it been perhaps easier
to maintain than we'd maybe made to believe
I wonder if to me they'll always look the same
if I'll never forget everything they'd seen

sometimes I look confronted to new come lovers
and try well to pretend there's more there
than I know's the truth but it doesn't long last
it seems eventually they see in mine the despair

my restless glances back and forth between time
trying to handle its unbearable lightness
evidence of wonder of whether greatness is extant
or still to come and my uncertainty's rifeness

and though many brown eyes there are to be seen
it's less their traits that I need to be shown
rather more it's the stories that they can tell
and the affection in them accessible to know

so in those photos I guess the truth of your eyes
that I peruse and in them find time to reflect
upon's traveling down memory's waning clarity lane
awaiting it's ardence once again let intersect

and a worthy question it is whether to forget
you can or should try to a once love's eyes
is it best remember what you kept as happy
or pursue the ephemeral with better yet's surmise?