Love in Plain Sight

When the Boy From All The Old Poems sends you a letter saying, I’ve been clean for 6 months now, and I want to apologize for everything my hands did back then. Strangely, it will not feel like healing. Even if it is true. Even if this is the kindest thing that boy has done for you in years. For who among us knows how to swallow such a truth? To know for certain how many things we hoped were honesty were, in fact, just whiskey. That every song we danced to that night was sung by the Hallelujah Junkie Choir. This boy who always woke up smiling, showed up at your door with 3 tomatoes and a mango, reached those dirty hands into such dark things. How humiliating. And what does it say about you? Everything you still call love he now calls Rock Bottom. When the Boy From All The Old Poems sends you a letter saying I’m so proud of you, and all the ways you have not died in the years that grew between us. You will write back I’m so proud of you too! Look how clean we have become in the hands of other people. How lucky we are to have realized love Need look nothing like a shot glass or a shotgun.

Love? Love is easy. Any two fools can fall in love. But trust; now that’s where the fun and games end, that’s where you need two adults to keep everything from falling to pieces.

I will not let myself wallow, I will not go to war with my furniture, I will not write a poem to glorify my sadness, I will not remind myself that she was my world, I will not grasp for reasons, I will not remember her first time or any moment since. I will glare at tv series till my eyes are raw, play video games till my thumbs are numb, workout till I’m sore, hangout with the guys till I’m bored, whatever… Because just like girls, big boys don’t cry

'Thương.' In the Vietnamese language, this word signifies both 'love' and 'injury.' I think that’s quite beautiful simply because - love is not a perpetual state of rapture. Love has imperfections. It’s an emotional roller coaster that will have you in a blissful reverie one day, and in tatters on your bathroom floor the next. Love will nearly tear you to pieces, but will always leave you begging for more. Love equates with injury in that you are virtually handing your heart to another person and hoping they won’t drop it.

"Love me" She said. "But not so that anyone else knows."

You will love him, in the way you walk a tightrope—in the way people learn to fall asleep in a war zone.

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To love is to dance with the devil. I have tasted the pleasures, now I lose my soul.

I could say her body is poetry, but that would be an understatement. Her body is scripture. Her body is meant to be perused over and over, to be revered and never understood. Her body is divine. Scripture, the only fitting reaction -worship. I could say that her body is a song, an enchanting conception of melancholy, but this too would be an understatement. Her body is a symphony, no a rock concert. Her body is awakening rhythm and deafening beauty. Her body is not a choice, it is a compulsion, a song that demands a dance. I could say that she is an obsession, but that would not be an understatement, it would be a lie. She is a need, an ache from a hollow emptiness that will not be dismissed. I could drive her from my head, stop my skin itching for hers. I could try. I have.