#chuckakot

We become who we love, intimate, for my love is your intimate, folded into a sweet melody, like a pearl hiding inside a shell, where my joy becomes your own, a delicate complexity, no formula, just woven to help us imagine not to be ourselves, but the experience of the beloved, the word love is justified, to be beyond ourselves, to be the premise of the another, to sit down with you, to interlace again, in this we have tried, in this your name begins again, made of time, wider and reprising.

You killed the way I loved you.

Sometimes, it is rather better not to look back, because I can no longer see you, nor feel you inside my heart, knowing that my heart only beats for nothing and no one, that it is only a physiological function, rather than, beating for someone like you and make me feel sad about things. And sometimes, I wonder, looking at the night sky, and realize that this is the only way— to close my eyes and reimagine you once more and let it go, to let you go, letting the wind take you and far from my sight.

All my life is saying, I have known you and loved you like a poem, in all time how life succours, how merciful is destiny, how each last song is beautiful for its ending, how one can last undrinkably bitter or sad, how love becomes extinct, how this pain creates color, and so I remember, love is not ours alone, it is shared in halves, one for you and one for me, oneness in us and every single thing, like a vein in your arms, like a recollection of promise, or like one sees beauty and die for it, or simply, one is defiant of pleasure, but all of me says it is you, now and again, it is you, like a window passing an allusion, like check marks kissing the error, like selflessness transcribes your name in the sand, and says, here I am, take me into your arms.

I imagine you to be the brightest star, but you are lightyears away, how I take my longing to be with you, does the river know how I become yours, or the robins question the existence of your charming face, does the bridge align with destiny, or perhaps, the quiet adamant look of the trees as they age experience the same way as I love you, but I love you hereon, and though as I carefully wonder, what kind of patience has been with me all along, to feel you in all things, to feel you inwardly, and as though the meekness of my heart is rekindled by this happiness, but as I say, it is not long lasting, and after all, my sadness will soon blanket me again, heavy eyes, sleepless nights, cold feet and naked arms.

I will dance with you in the kitchen, pouring you with my kisses, I want your one hand in my chest, and the other to my shoulder, I want your warmth, the joy of your breathing, the sympathy of your eyes, the heaven in your smile.

Inside my heart, there is a heartbeat calling you home.