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.