I love. Wouldn’t we all like to start
a poem with “I love …”? I would.
I mean, I love the fact there are parallel lines
in the word “parallel,” love how
words sometimes mirror what they mean.
I love mirrors and that stupid tale
about Narcissus. I suppose
there is some Narcissism in that.
You know, Narcissism, what you
remind me to avoid almost all the time.
Yeah, I love Narcissism. I do.
But what I really love is ice cream.
Remember how I told you
no amount of ice cream can survive
a week in my freezer. You didn’t believe me,
did you? No, you didn’t. But you know now
how true that is. I love
that you know my Achilles heel
is non other than ice cream—
so chilly, so common.
And I love fountain pens. I mean
I just love them. Cleaning them,
filling them with ink, fills me
with a kind of joy, even if joy
is so 1950. I know, no one talks about
joy anymore. It is even more taboo
than love. And so, of course, I love joy.
I love the way joy sounds as it exits
your mouth. You know, the word joy.
How joyous is that. It makes me think
of bubbles, chandeliers, dandelions.
I love the way the mind runs
that pathway from bubbles to dandelions.
Yes, I love a lot. And right here,
walking down this street,
I love the way we make
a bridge, a suspension bridge
—almost as beautiful as the
Golden Gate Bridge—swaying
as we walk hand in hand.

When you find someone who can make you laugh. Smile. Grow. lust. Want. Crave. Feel. Make you mad but happy. Keep that. That’s euphoria.

I like people who get excited about the change of seasons, the sound of the ocean, watching a sunset, the smell of rain and starry nights.

And maybe love isn’t always a kiss on a forehead but rather a hug and a kiss that say’s “I’m sorry let’s not fight” than spilling words out to each other in the heat of the moment that you would regret later. Maybe it isn’t about buy her diamond ring’s and lace underwear excepting her to wear it for you later that night. Maybe it’s leaving her pill bottle next to her phone with a glass of water as a reminder that thing’s can get better with a little help. Maybe love isn’t about giving fifty fifty each way, maybe it’s about giving 100 when that person greatest demons come to visit for the day. Maybe love isn’t about writing about how beautiful her body was the first time you saw it and how you’d have never seen anything more raw and natural. Maybe it’s about writing how she makes your soul dance in the rain of sunshine and how it also makes your heart ache from time to time when both sides are being stubborn. Maybe it’s not about a vow that you both swear to keep but a understanding that sometimes things don’t work out and sometimes they do. Maybe it’s not about saying I love you every second of every day but showing that love in the simplest of ways like “call me when you get home so I know you’re safe.” Maybe, just maybe you’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places and maybe even the wrong people. Maybe the kind of love that you are so hell bound on searching for is taking your pills without no one reminding you or dying your hair the color of the sky because that’s the only time when you feel closest to your real self. Maybe the kind of love that you are searching for in another person is already right in front of you when you look in the mirror. Maybe that’s where you’ll find your one true love. Maybe it isn’t a her or him or someone but a you, maybe just maybe you can find the love that you long for in yourself and maybe just maybe if you’re lucky enough you’ll also meet a person who makes your heart dance in the rain. Maybe that’s what love is, loving yourself or maybe it’s not. I don’t know but when I do I’ll let you know.

I don’t think I can stop writing about you even if you ask me to. You see writing became the voice of these things I can never speak of and the embodiment of the thousand undefined emotions that you made me feel.

I was about half in love with her by the time we sat down. That’s the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty… you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.

I see everyone and no one in myself.

But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.