Love is not like anything, of course,
but sometimes I think that my love must be like the sea,
for so much of him I must swim to get to,
and so much of him, like the sea, lurks menacingly beneath the surface, dark and deep and dangerous.

All his hidden women crouch beneath his warm skin
and when I touch him, they come up to the surface to greet me;
I picture their long hair wrapping itself around my neck,
their beautiful nails digging into the vulnerable skin of my wrists,
and suddenly I am filled with the knowledge of him with them,
his hands on the crook of their being,
his lips grazing the naked skin of their backsides.
The thought makes me shiver, and when I hear his voice,
genuine and loving-- "what's the matter?"--
I want to cry almost as much as I want to keep on kissing him.

Love is like what? Love is not like anything,
and especially not my love and I's.
Loving him could be like drowning or suffocating if it did not feel like breathing too,
Or perhaps, more generally, like dying a slow and painful death, if only I had ever felt anything so much like rebirth.

Do you remember the last night?
Me, standing helpless in my doorway,
hands aching to reach out, and you--
figure retreating, head hanging down.

Some nights I thought our passion
would break our bodies apart.
Other nights I thought your indecision would.

one day we will walk to the other side of principle
and our gold intentions will become pure acts,
the burning footprints we left fading behind us.

one day we will hike to the peak of almosts
and we will kiss the skin of our souls' lining soft;
we will make the yearning of lovers light.

one day we will rest our weary limbs at the top of the world
and love as far as our eyes can see--
you will love, and I will love, and we will be free.

Sometimes it does not hurt to look at you;
sometimes I feel light again when we touch, like you have never hurt me, like our hearts are again mirrors for the other,
like you're looking at me again on a dark night in my car,
kissing my knuckles and my forehead and promising me you'll make it all okay.

But, God, sometimes--
Sometimes the ghost of your hands on me weighs me down so much that I can't move.
Sometimes I look at you and I am being left all over again.
Sometimes I look at you and your heart is so close to being in my hands and then you rip it out of reach again and take mine with it.
Sometimes you are breaking all your promises again.
Sometimes I look at you and I become a skeleton.

More than anything, I want to say: “Come to me, and I will kiss the fragile skin of your eyelids, and I will see gold in the brown pools of your eyes, and I will touch the skin of you soft, and I will kiss you all over. I will make a home for my lips of you.

Come to me, and let us be warmth; we don’t have to be cold anymore. Come to me, and I’ll light a warm fire under your skin, and we can be happy.

Come to me. Crash into me; fall, fall, do not be scared. You are safe. You are so safe. Let me run my lips over the fresh white skin of your scars. Let me be a dose of healing. Let me help you be happy. Let me. Let me. Let me.”

In you I speak a million unspeakable tongues;
like honey I let a language of love pour off the cliff of my top lip,
flow into the basin of your cupid's bow as we kiss.
There in that crevice is where you forcibly store the past of us;
there is no speaking anymore, we do not converse.
There is only the pointing of the blade inward
and the blood you let pool into your eyes when you look at me.

A professor asked me today: "What would you do if there were no boundaries?"
I'm sure she wanted me to say "travel the world" or "pursue my passion"
but all I could think about was reaching across the invisible barrier between us,
effortlessly sticking my hand through that grand fortress of brick,
and guiding your soft, tired head to the haven of my chest;
feeling your hair on my lips and letting the sweet salt of you pour into my skin.