Hannah! Stop that.

Hannah!
Did you hear me?
Hannah!

Go to your room!*

Really?
Seriously?

Go to my room?

Yaaaaay!

I want to make love to life with you
just as we have made love to each other.
I want to travel across the open plains to be by your side,
just as my fingers have journeyed softly across your flat belly.
Let us run to one another,
and then to the snow-topped mountains.
We will climb up to the peaks of them
and look out towards the sea,
just as we have looked into each others' eyes,
and understood each others' souls there,
and seen the oceans there of all that could be.
Just as we did with each other,
when we once were unfamiliar,
we can explore foreign lands
of strange faces, languages, and ways;
fall deeply in love with them;
grow to be intimate with them;
and then feel a sweet sadness whenever we part from them.
And, like the phases our love goes through,
we will experience seasons of both warmth and coldness
as we adventure through places of both joy and despair.
Can we bathe together, naked, in salty water, and fresh?
Shower, embracing, under soft waterfalls in humid climes?
Feel a last gasp of coarse wind between our fingers
as we walk down wintry city streets and they come close to intertwine?
Breathe autumnal forest air through our noses as we kiss
and a campfire graces us with its perfume?
Leave imprints in the soft grass
as we lie upon our backs in it at night,
looking at the bright stars with equally bright eyes
and feel them in our spirits,
as we do each other,
and then fall asleep there
until the blush of sunrise awakens us?
Can we?
My dear, my arms may be empty
since you have departed from here,
but my heart is full.
Full to bursting wide open
with appreciation of the possibilities
and a hope that beautiful dreams like this
shall one day come to pass for us,
and then we will make love to the world, together,
as we have made love to each other.

Love, I see the infinite universe
in all that you are:
trillions of planets
that circle the billions of stars
among icy, white comets,
and dark, grey moons;
Nebulae, supernovae
and all their gorgeous hues;
the greens, the pinks,
the violet, orange, and blue,
in the multitude of galaxies
through outer space strewn.
Your immense gravity
draws me to you.
Darling, some might say
God's greatest work of art
is this awesome place,
but it's you and your heart.
With divine purpose,
He exploded countless stars,
eons ago,
which formed the earth where we are,
then molded you one day,
His most magnificent sculpture,
from its willing clay.
His most impressive painting:
the landscapes of your body
and soft colors brushed upon.
His most majestic song:
your enchanting voice and laugh
for which my damaged ears long.
You're the most intricate symphony;
the grandest, most striking tune
played upon the infinitesimal strings
He used to create you.

Love, just like the infinite universe,
no words can adequately describe
your vast beauty, it can only be understood
in the soul and not the mind.

after five years
when I write her a love poem,
she is always surprised,
her unexpectation
so very pleases me.

after five years
when I write her a love poem,
I am always surprised,
that a new way to say it,
uncovered.

but this I can tell you,
not once
do I ever write
nor will I ever pen
those I love you words.

they are too easy, too cheap,
a dime a dozen,
naked words make me weep,
dress 'em, cloak 'em, try to
Pradip 'em in
mystery, charming humor,
use conjuring spells of
Bala imagery unreal,
Bzynga!

work hard to tell her why,
work hard to guard your originality,
work hard to tell her in ways
that her into me
smiling, crying, punching.

so I write love poems,
every now and then,
special ways recalled,
teasing her about her forgetfulness,
about her teasing me with rhyming
that is less than spectacular,
how my body has
reshaped itself to fit her.

tell her
I love you,
plain,
well that be downright,

pffft.
(an interjection used to express or indicate
a dying or fizzling out)

the key is to tell her
in a fashion original,
personal to us.

that what all these endless
love poems here strive,
but too oft, fail to arrive.
all tricked up, too direct,
passion burnt used up
after but a single read

stroke her cheek
with soft stanzas,
torrential directness,
no subtly,
fizzles.

write for the long haul,
words that five years hence,
words that five hundred years hence,
make her into me
smiling, crying, punching,
like the first time
she read them,
like they did
five years ago.

When I was young, my life was like music that was always getting louder
Everything moved me
A mother with her child
That made me feel so much
A homeless person sitting on the sidewalk holding out a ***** cup for some spare change
I could have cried over it
I did
A calendar that displayed the wrong month
The way the moon followed me everywhere I went
How an unmade bed looked like home
Where the smoke coming from the house across the street disappeared into the sky
Frost on the window of my mother's car
How the earth tirelessly orbited around the sun
The way the city lights looked from afar
I have spent my entire life learning to feel less
Every single day I feel less
Is that growing old?
Or something worse?
I suppose you cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness
But how do you balance yourself between the two without forgetting how to feel altogether?

It's cold, and I wish
my gloves were her hands.
Her love is the best
love in the land.