love is chaos too

“Icarus loved the sun too much and died. Narcissus loved himself too much and died. It doesn’t matter what kind of love we choose. We are all doomed to die for it.”

Sometimes she sends me poetry that she likes, and when I read the lines I can hear her heartbeat resonating with the meter of Burroughs' writing. Irregular and sweet, unpredictable like her, every word changing course, walking toward the unexpected. I’m in love with the way that she wanders through the pages the same way that she wanders through the streets of Manhattan, late at night, hood over her face, covering her freshly curled hair. I’m in love with the way that she talks with a far away look in her eyes, stuck in a fantasy, romanticizing the moments of yesterday. I’m in love with her demeanor and her smiles and her passion and how we can have conversations without words; just by reading the way each of us breathes metaphors and liquor that radiate from the tips of our tongues. I like that she is summer. I like that she is winter. Sometimes she writes poetry and she sends it to me and I think that it’s wonderful as I hungrily digest her phrases and sentences, that I look forward to increasingly with each day that passes. Her words at first, sweet like honey, leave you with a feeling afterwards that you might have been just stung by a bee, but that’s fine, because there is beauty in her pain and sorrow too. And when she feels that way, I’ll be there to love her, and cry with her, and make her smile, so that she can be happy again.