Would you like a cup of tea?

Milk?

Sugar?

Wine perhaps?

Here, come sit with me, let us eat expensive cheese,

and talk about cheesy things.

Like how sunsets are always free,

and about how the waves are neverendingly faithful
to the shore. Let us sit
in a swinging love seat,
 and drink our wine
from tea mugs, so the elderly couple
across the street
doesn't cast us disapproval.

Let me lay my head upon your shoulder,
while you contemplate the mysteries of the universe.

Exclaiming how brilliant the stars shine their light from so far away,

when all the light I need
is from you.

Let us eat the expensive cheese,
because love is no expense
when our sunsets are free.

I don't believe in perfection or something being perfectly flawed.
And I guess you could say that it means that I don't believe in happiness,
mostly the kind that comes from loving someone else.
And I guess I could tell you I don't believe in things I've never experienced.
But then I could tell you how I had left a half eaten English muffin covered in ketchup on my counter for weeks because reminded me of her,
the eccentricities that I didn't want to forget, that she wouldn't let me keep.
Or maybe how I didn't clean for weeks because the Newports strewn among the furniture also reminded me of the half dazed smile she would give me before we kissed.
And I don't believe love is quite right to describe what I felt.
I think it was much more, it was an instant connection.
She was so complicated and I'm nothing but simple.
And I feel like that might be a lie.
But I could tell you I was being honest and in time I was telling the truth.
I don't believe I was in love with her,
and I guess that means you could say that I don't believe in her,
mostly that she could have ever been mine.
Mostly, because she wasn't.

the thing about a cliff they say
it's not so very tall
until you reach the top of it
and see how far you fall.

falling down the thick white wall
of rock and much decay
you only see the clashing rocks
forever in your way.

you hit the rocks and pale grey waves
and then time seems to stop;
battered, bruised, and broken then
you start to climb back up.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.