Galaxy of blue and purple,
I trace the reflection of stars
With fingertips dewy in birth
And death on my breath;
Tsunami of a butterfly is
The wind at my lips, I kiss
The clouds that confined me.

I didn't find you most beautiful
after all those hours you spent
on your makeup
or shaping your lovely hair
into its tiny strands.
or the outfits you wore
that hugged your frame
so eager to catch a hungry eye
I found you most beautiful
after the makeup
was smeared or washed away
your hair a mess from the long night
and your outfits nothing but balled up fabric
strewn across the room
and all those barriers you put up
for others
came crashing down
under the weight of your smile
thats when you were the most beautiful thing
I have ever seen.

Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-

But I do  know how to tell a true love story -

Interested?
Fantastic-
So let’s begin,

True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -

In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.

and that’s what makes them “true.”

But what is this coveted “love” -
the emotion?-
the act?-
the mentality?-

Love, is a constant state of illusionment-

A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be,  can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-  

A quid pro quo  between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
anything-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-

Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-

Characterized by spontaneity-
by indulgence-
by risk-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-

Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-

So you want to know how to write a true love story?
be honest-
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -

A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe

So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-

I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”

I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of  utter normalcy

I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-

I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.

Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
I fell.





..And that is my true love story-

Why do some of us possess the habit
Of dwelling on negativity?

The sun still rises,
The birds are singing,
There are opportunities galore,
Perhaps a new beginning?
There are languages to learn,
More friends to make,
New people to date
And chances to take.
The change of the seasons,
Stories to write,
Oceans and cities
And warm summer nights.
There are places to visit,
Plenty of time to travel,
Ideas to develop
And secrets to unravel.

The Earth is still in orbit
And the stars still have their twinkle,
It's not worth getting hung up
Over finding a wrinkle.

Are the little things really that important?
losing your keys,
a few extra calories,
a bad hair day,
missing the bus.
Are they worth focusing on?
Look clearly
And ask yourself:
Do those things really matter
At all?

At night-the light turned off, the filament
Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,
His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low
To touch a swampy source-he thought of death.
Her father's hilltop home allowed him time
To sense the nothing standing like a sheet
Of speckless glass behind his human future.
He had two comforts he could see, just two.

One was the cheerful fullness of most things:
Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil
Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.
The other was burning the trash each day.
He liked the heat, the imitation danger,
And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,
String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,
Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.

We make love
The way it should be.
I love you,
And you love me.
In asking for nothing
We're gaining everything,
My selfless lover.

I want the oil of your fingertips
to be infused in my skin,

I'd like to discover strands of your hair
tangled in my clothes,

I want the taste of your sweet skin
to soak into my dry tongue,

I'd like-after a long night-for your scent
to stain every hair on my head,

I wish for you to always be a part of me in all the smallest ways possible.

Nothing can compare
to the smell and feel of an old book.
Hidden away in a old store.
The smell of dust and age
that lays on the pages someone has held before.
the places it has been.
From coffee shop tables
to trains
bedrooms
maybe even a few floors.
More stories to the book than that
of which the words that lay on the page.
Folded corners and other kinds of stains.
No nothing can compare to an old book.
You can keep your ebooks and kindles
thank you very much.
You cannot recommend
what I might find
in that old store.