It’s so strange seeing lovers repeat their woos and their lines to new lovers.
This might be why I get quieter and quieter and just smoke more and more weed and write less and less poetry.
I don’t want to use my words on any more lovers, I don’t want to weave warm scarves of sweet nothings for anymore cold necks, I don’t want to accidentally use the same reference or the same abstract thought or the same memory for more than one lover.
My love, when I love you, is eternal and mad. You only get a taste of it when I’m not in love with you. I’ve told so many people “I love you”, because I felt it. Because I care for and connect with many people. I’ve written poems for people inspired by their person, their warmth, their charm, their looks or the way they fuck.
But when I write for you because I am in love with you, I become God and you become my commandments. Your soul is my purpose to examine and understand and accept and adore. When I write for you, I am trying to conjure lightning bolts in every goddamn line. I am meticulously holding my breath as I tiptoe across the coals of lines that I hate and erase furiously. When I write for you it is self hatred at never being about to perfect this shit language I have as a tool. When I write for you your heart is my fucking life, my words are all I have to win you over and I will tear up the planks of my soul to find the rawest form of love to spill into your arms.
My love, my love, I am a lover. I’m waiting for you. I want to love you.
