Love is…
Asking and being asked how your day went.
Wanting to see the world from the other's point of view--even, and especially if it is different from yours.
Quietly anticipating and being always willing to act on the needs of the other.
Being happiest in the other's company.
Always assuming the best about the other.
Pitching in without having to be asked.
Not letting fear or embarrassment stop you from always communicating how you feel.
Always wanting to know, and be willing to listen.
Sharing life goals, disappointments, sorrows,  joys, and triumphs.
Lots of small daily things, not just the big things.
Making love--not just having ***.
Feeling whole and complete because of your relationship with the other.
Feeling supported and empowered to stretch and reach for all you need, to be you.
Doing everything in your power to help the other as they grow to reach for self-realization.
Making allowances for the other, without keeping a tally.
Quiet happy times, alone, together.
J. Sandy

It's hard to keep it all together with you pulling me apart.
Crawling underneath my skin and breaking me slowly from the start.
You could have anything you wanted, and baby, so could I.
Except the thing that truly counts, that once thing... "You and I".
No matter how much I fall apart, no matter how much I cry..
I never will stop nor will I give up, because without you my reflection is but a lie.
I don't feel right, and I don't feel sane. Quite frankly I'm a *****.
But looking in your deep green eyes, my love defeats the Lich.
I feel at peace, I feel at home, nevermore have I felt secure.
The touch of your lips as you hold me close is no longer what assures.
I lay in bed, reaching for you, but your spot has long grown cold.
I'd wait a thousand years for you, if only to grow old.
It doesn't matter when or where, to see you is what matters.
I just want for you to know, without you, my love, my life just simply shatters.
I love you more than thunderstorms; unpredictable and chaotic, as am I.
I love you, regardless of the pain and the ever cloudy sky.
Words are simply powerless to tell you how I feel.
I wish that I had one last chance to show you... just how potent and how real..

I saw there, in a darkened room, in a corner
something...
curious, I venture closer
not sure yet what I see but it echoes of pain
many stories were hiding in the dark
and to me they were whispering
asking if I would but listen a while
it is frightening in here I know, said the voice
but the absence of light can be your friend
when in darkness you cannot see me
for I have been here so long I am but a hideous shadow
yet do not be afraid, just listen
I listened for so long
days on end I sat in the black gaining wisdom
when the final tale was told I pondered in silence for some time
finally I stood, bent down and picked up the piece of me
and took us out into the sunlight

Some mornings you wake up, you see the sunshine, you breathe in that first deep breath of life, that first bit of a new day. You may smell coffee brewing, hiss, hiss, gurgle, in your shiny coffee ***.  
Some days you look out at the horizon, not afraid of what the day holds because in that moment you're happy, and alive, and free, and nothing but the warm rays of curious sun beat upon your face pulling, holding, caressing, welcoming you. "You're alive, love." it says to you. You've been reborn as you will be many more times from here on. Wake up to the jolt of life that's been brought upon you.  
Some mornings you wake up, you see the sunshine, and you hold your hand up to shield your eyes from the harsh beams of light blasting you, tossing you, yanking you into reality because you've been in darkness for hours which turn into days, which turn to weeks, which turn to months, which turn to years, and your new born eyes can't take the intensity.  
This was my morning. This was my shocking ascent from darkness but instead of welcoming sun, life, love, hope, happiness, this light illuminated my wasteland; my fears, my regrets, my demons. This morning I had my back turned as he drove away. A man who is my brother whom, though still here, I ignore. Why? Why did I do that? Just one simple turn of my head, one single motion and I would have known that he was still here, that I was still alive, and happy, and hopeful, and, well...  
This morning was emptier than ever, and cold too. My life was/is upside down, and inside out, and sideways, and front ways, and slant ways, and back ways. All direction was lost and disorientation consumed me and I was nothing and nothingness was all there was.  
Some mornings you wake up, and that's it. You're just there and with no guidance and left alone, only yourself to push yourself, to pull yourself, to throw yourself forward or in reverse or jump up and down screaming "I am living but I am so dead and numb, and, well..."  
This morning I was that and more. I was empty yet full of all the hate, all the regret, all the sorrow, and wallowing in it. And though I write this short of breath, and wet eyed, and lump in throat, I can't cry. I can't scream loud enough for anyone but me to take it in, to hold it in and to have it, nurture it, give it life as it gave me life, it is my life. All the things I swore I let go of, that I was sure was in my past, is still here; still breathing, and starved, and hungry from my neglect of its acknowledgement. "I am zen. I am one. I am whole. I am alive." I told myself; but lies come wrapped with pretty ribbons and taste so sweet when you first hear them, when you first mutter them, and when you think you've gotten away with it all.  
I am not okay in this morning where the rays of sun are like stray bullets not meant for me and yet only for me, and totally meant to give me breath, and life, and hope, and freedom, and, well...  
"Maybe it's just the change of season. Yeah it's definitely that. Everything will be okay. These bad feelings will go away and leave me alone forever and tomorrow's sun will breathe deep into me and make me warm, and lift me up, and, and I can't keep doing this."  
Honesty comes in pill bottles and razor blades and coping mechanisms. It's dishonesty's ugly brother. It's reality and pain and darkness, and blindness, kicking, screaming, cutting you down until your final breaths are wasted wondering out loud "How did things come to this?" And no amount of drugs, no amount of cigarettes will dull this pain, and pull it, throw it, push it out leaving you empty, and open, and bleeding, and so exposed.  
This is how I felt this morning when I first cleared my lungs of all the smoke, all the anxiety, all the anger, and sorrow. I was, in that moment, full of dread, lost of all hope, angry, empty, hopeless, and, well...  
No, I am not okay; despite the smile on my face and the rise in my voice I am still fighting back tears and struggling to keep from breaking down, and screaming, and crying, and hating everything and yet nothing but myself.  
I am not okay, I am the tin man, rusty, creaky, falling to pieces; but still, I oil my rusty joints in hope of an easier day and that things will look up soon, that the clouds will be lifted, that I will wake up and all of this will just be a dream; that today is cloudy, and rainy, and cold, and that tomorrow I will wake up to the sun kissing me, pulling me, holding me, and loving me.

We spend our first nine months in
small sacks of transparent, rosy
membranes and indigo-blue veins.

Floating in the fluid darkness,
we breath in time to the beat
of waves rising and breaking

rushing in and out of unseen chambers
of the heart. Existence is a pulsing communion
with God in the ebb and flow of silence

before we wash ashore on the dry banks
of the canal and learn to scream.
My nephew was born small and wrinkled

into latex gloves, with fluid in his lungs.
Brushing my pinky against his petal-fragile
skin, I think of the tides and

the people who return to them with
stones in their pockets, surrendering
to the crashing of salt and heaven

as the first mother fills them
in an inversion of that Egyptian
myth of creation—a small piece of the world

sinking back into Nu’s cold embrace
—and something old and fiercely bright
rises up, overflowing into my smile,

hot and sweet. My eyes burn red against
the late November air as the origins of love
wash me clean.