I love you.
I can feel the simple strokes of ink on ivory sun-bleached paper.
I love you more than I have known before.
Now, the words stare back. These words may be warnings about the primitive elements of repeated failure. Love can never be failure.
Love is alive and bursting it containment; overwhelming the senses and stimulating the shared ancient depths. A flow from twin hearts, arteries fused into a pulse-dance between two souls still figuring it out.
Tamed love houses meaning under the advice of silence. A bristling love emerges out of words, runs its own way through corridors and parlors storing blood as a gift. I say this as hope molds love’s meaning to me in the discovery phase where glances are pure as a mirrored lake and eyes are not eyes, rather, they are portals to open wider and explore and undress while desire seeks to sprint and the heart beats so loud, the only action is patient shared hypnosis.
What if the child in me doesn’t realize that the love whispered with hands spread wide is stronger than any feeling before? A drowning where the feeling of love outgrows the boundary; the corners and caverns of the body hollowed out by the muscles of song, pushing tissue into snowdrifts that pile onto curvatures of weightless powder; a sprinkling of faith punished into a new season of discovery that keeps its disguise and may not give back.
All along, love’s vintage elements report back from bygone moments redolent in memory. It may just be puppy love incarnate, disguised, yet holding everything that encourages the mating ritual to become an indelible tattoo. Memories of grief are stricken from the record and a new flow state, inside the gauzy comforts of vulnerability, holds the embers of a fresh start within the membranes of an everlasting feeling.
Love comes and goes, yet it stays inside couched in forms that can become unrecognizable. It registers in families, chosen friends, and strangers. The satellites that fixate a child’s being do not depart the atmosphere of chance encounter where hope and faith never wane. After I’ve taken all the utterances at face value and weighed all the primitive articulations, I would rather have words sacrificed of all their meaning so simple gestures can carry the heart’s weight.
There is no reason to talk further about love. The moon will always keep trying to kiss the sun. And, the great vocal catalogue recounting the details of daily life is often just a mad stylus at work on scratched vinyl. While I contemplate and expand my love of that special one, and life continues to faithfully restore childhood memories to their eternal set-point, the lantern I use to find my way becomes a lighthouse.