I have time. Please, devour me."
Love doesn’t occur “just like that.” She doesn’t walk in and out “just like that,” upon whim and fancy, because love is neither fancy nor whimsical. She is not so transitory. She is not so weak. Love is not clad in see-through flimsy, she is not the whore that would traipse through the bar while grazing desperate men and their ties, she is not the whiff of French perfume or forgotten cigarettes that lingers after her sex. She is not the undulation, that certain curl of ass and hips that would ensnare like cat’s cradle around your middle, she is not what makes you a man, a man who wants to lay, or just a man. Love doesn’t bring you to your knees with the crease drawn down her back, or red silk like a river cloying to her nipples, no ripped lace or satin between her thighs, because love is not “just” or “that” or “like” any-damn-thing.
Love is the girl, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, because crying can only be afforded by the poor. Her bare feet cling to the hardwood, concrete, pavement, what have you, because she stays, even when it gets fucked up beyond all comprehension and her body is swollen from the brutality that is you, a man, chained to what the story books forgot to tell us, that love is not pretty, that she is not gorgeous, that she is not nice, that she is not truthful, that love lies and cheats and steals and hurts, swallows all your moods and smiles, so that she can stay and be there. Be there.
It splinters, you know? I hate that you think love is just a novel."
Kiss me with your mouth wide open, I want to learn the molecular imprint of your insides.
Kiss me with your eyes closed, I want our eyelashes to hold hands.
It’s okay if your hands are trembling. Mine are too. I bet the stars are jealous of how we shake and burn."