Love Devotion And Irony

-Yay for poetry about twisted romances or lack-there-of's or whatever-... Feel free to add your own.

Falling in love with you was like falling head over heals into a brick wall.

I am your friend with no benifits what-so-ever.

And yet I thank you for it.

I thank you for never having even the slightest romantic or sexual interest in me - it's a distant second to returning my love, but it's beter than any mesy stuff inbetween. I thank you for never being around me when you were so drunk you might have kissed me... supposing you ever got quite that drunk. I thank you for never having time to hang out, and refusing to e-mail because you live only three blocks away. I thank you for this because to this day, spending a couple mornings in a row in your presance still drives me wild. I thank you for teaching me what it feels like to want more than you will ever get from someone, knowing that let me get out of quite a few mesy situations before they got too bad, and it let me know when I'd finnally found someone who does care.

Ah... my sweet addiction...

As tempting as a closed ice cream shop...

As cruel as getting ten e-mails, only to find that nine of them are addvertisements, and the other, from your best friend, is a forward about saving guademalan dung-beetles...

As rewarding as writing love poems to the Mona Lisa...

You, my non-lover, are as addictive as masturbation, and in the long run, every bit as fulfilling.

You tempt me with your innocence, torcher me with your experience, and kill me with your ignorance.

You've kept me up all night more than all the other girls combined.

I swear I've had more conversations with you in my head than I have in real life.

There's such irony in me and you....

I think god let there be a set amount of love between us, and I didn't have the good sence to leave half for you.

The thought of both me, and romance/sex in the same sentance is enough to make you cringe, or at least it was for the first few years... and yet there's no woman I've loved longer than you, and only one I've loved more, excluding my mother.

I tell you I love you, and you tell me you might, but you don't know what love is.

And I believe you.

Love is a tenderness you spend most of your time near, and never reach.

You apoligize if you start to cry.

You begin to understand spirituality, but you vear off on some analitical tangent before you have time to grok the simplicity.

You moch mellowdrama and "sappy" emotions at every turn.

You "care" for me, you don't "love" me.

I think this is whats always drawn me to you... not so much a need for love for myself, but a need to show you what love is - to help you learn how to feel it. But it doesn't seem that I'll have the privledge of teaching you that...

Because soon you will leave.

I doubt I will ever again grieve so much over an event so good for my mental health.

I love you.... and I know if you ever learn how, you will love me too.

When you learn to love, tell me if I was one of the people who helped you learn... you have no idea the pride I'll take in it...

I hope you learn to love soon.... I've known people paralized from the neck down who were less crippled than people who don't know how to fall deeply and madly in love.

You spoke of a vast enigma that we cannot solve. Floy called me an enigma. Your life is smooth and flowing and truthful . . . then you look my way, and send me a meek, awkward smile, but you're frowning inside. What do you make of the clumsy, uncomfortable smile I send you back? Do you see truth in it, sense that there may be something more, or are you just baffled by the enigma that it seems to be? To avoid the confusion, it appears we sometimes prefer avoidance. I dare not look in your direction with a minute fear that maybe you'd accidentally glance back and we would have another of those "moments", if you could call them even that. Then why do you fascinate me so?? I can't recall ever having an openly honest interaction with you . . . not a deep conversation, not shared a whole lot of fun, or anything. I'm not even quite sure how we could. How would I be around you? How would you be around me? How, that is, without this awkwardness. Communicative incompatibility, or so it seems. Yet it's not. I've actually had quite a few very meaningful experiences with you, one that sticks out above all the others, one that I very doubt I'll ever forget. I layed there beside you for what could have been forever, basking hungrily in your energy . . . I had never had a chance to feel it that strongly before. I think you were sleeping, but I was only in a half-sleep. I couldn't sleep because I was having such a good time with you. And I might have just dreamt it, but there were times when you weren't asleep, and you were at those times very interested in my own energy. I have rarely felt such satisfaction and contentment as I did then.

It became so obvious to me why you like cats so much. You ARE a cat. Your aura is so much like that of a feline that I can't believe I didn't notice it right off. You move like a cat, you think like a cat, and you purr like a cat when your hair is being rubbed. I couldn't tell you how many times I've been tempted to come over to you and rub your scraggly, mousy-brown hair. But I never felt worthy of it. It would disrupt the flow of the natural order of spiritual growth if, in this stage of still significant awkwardness between us, I were to all of the sudden express such intense interest as a long-known friend would. But I smile to think of the day when I am able to just go up to you, put my arms around you, lay my head on your shoulder and only feel comfort and love. But as of now, I will fix my gaze in that direction and by desire let the magnetism of the inevitable pull me ever closer to that vision.

you felt me through with your hands and your lips before you ever explored me inside. you said my kisses didn't satisfy and now my mind is just fine. but you still grasp for my hand on crowded buses and stare at my lips and my eyes and say that i am a dancer. that we should have children together. my hips dip and eyebrows raise in anticipation of your just maybe, but then you go away. you never stay long enough to really talk like we did the first couple nights. you say it's not quite right, but i wonder if that's just cause you haven't really tried.

i always touch your hair when i want to touch your lips and shoulders and feet and hips. i just stroke your hair, it reminds me of blackbird feathers soft and free and tattered and black as the deepest part of me.

you felt me through with your hands and lips but i never really got to touch you. i never really got the chance to satisfy, because you always say goodbye. you always leave just as i'm starting to see. you always leave.

a glance down darkened corridors reveals a hazy luminance, the scruffy hired trumpeters of our underappreciated Savior Prince, dawn.

small gods preside over our minor deaths, the dalliance of sodden, sudden friends unworthy of attention from any of Aphrael's swift eraser gum.

we're all mechanical geniuses, yearning for the priesthood. the a-b-c's of arousal are eating away at underexposed soulmate potentialities like great moths in summer sweaterboxes.

~becca~

trying to love another

when you don't even love yourself

is like trying to love a star

when you can only see clouds

-Katelet

I don't believe in knights in shining armor.

I was in the bathtub just now… listening to pink floyd… shaving my legs… and I just got overwhelmed with frustration because the bath water was so fucking clear. I'm thinking, why is it that natural substances put so much energy into not representing truth? As though the purity of the water itself was mocking the lack of purity or clenliness or clarity in my brain. I was sure it was. I'm shaving my legs, thinking about your eyes, and the water just stares up at me like, yeah, I bet you wish you could be as clear as me. And I do. I don't know what I expect from you. I don't like fairy tales, and I don't want or expect you to dump your girlfriend, (the wicked witch), say goodbye to your family, (the evil stepmother included,) and come untie my hands and sweep me off to fairyland or never-never land or oz or wherever the hell people get swept off to. I just want some clarity. A little piece of water or light or nothingness. And yeah, I guess happily ever after is pretty clear. Though somewhat boring…

	So the water is laughing at me, and the razor is giggling too, but also
saying blood's not clear, and my hand is quivering because my wrists are
white again and I don't do that anymore, and I look down at the fucking
untouched water and I start slicing my leg like a cucumber. Because if it's
my leg it isn't a suicide attempt. It's a shaving cut. So, yeah, the water
gets these nice little red streaks all through it, like missiles, and they
cloud and swirl and explode and drip and they are so beautiful. And exactly
the way my brain feels. Clouded and sliced and jagged. So, now the water
matches me better… but I'm not feeling better, because I know when my
friends grab my wrists and say, "oh, good." I'll be thinking no, not there,
instead of  yeah. Good. Good for me.
	So "wish you were here" is over now, and fiona apple is tattering the air
with her voice and peircing the not-so-pure water with her words, and now I
am feeling a little better because my leg is still seeping a little, even
though I know I shouldn't be. But I have to see you again tonight, and I
know we'll end up talking for hours, and we won't get anywhere, and I
probably won't tell you to fuck off or that I don't need your stupid fucking
white horse, because I don't feel that, I just think it. and because you'll
say something like 'you're eyes are so piercing" or "I don't know if she
makes me happy" and I'll just want to melt or explode or crumble or crunch
or un-exist. And all I will want right then is your lips on my skin and I'll
probably have goosebumps and I won't be thinking about shining armor or
fairy tales or too-clear bath water. I'll be thinking about wanting you. so
I won't get anywhere, and I'll set myself up for pain again, and I still
won't be able to touch you. and I probably should never see you again, you
or your fucking horse. And I probably shouldn't tell you about the bath
water. But I probably will. Because when I'm with you I can't think of any
reason to lie or to come to a decision about you. I just want to be right
there with you. and it's a wonderful feeling… but afterwards I'm just jaded
and confused and clouded and I want to go home and rot because the white
horse fantasy is inevitable. And it will never happen. But that's all I can
think about. That and your fucking piercing eyes. And your full lips. And
goosebumps.
	So the bathwater is drained now… and I'm listening to joan osborne, and I'm
thinking "fuck you and the horse you're never going to ride in on." But I'm
feeling "thank you for trying to draw my eyes and for holding me when I
cried that day and for drawing little rainstorms on my stomach and for
existing." And the bath water of the world is dripping blood and exploding,
and my leg is still stinging, and I can just see the shining mane of your
white horse in the sun outside. And I am just seeping feeling all over the
place and I can't hide it anymore. and now I'm hearing it again, "how I
wish, how I wish you were here…" and it's making some of the feeling well up
in my eyes, and I'm just hoping I can find the courage to make you decide,
and not worry about either one of us crumbling.

5-26-2000

  can’t you feel the need tugging? 
  can’t you feel it,
  stretching into nevermore forever and 
  choking your soul?
  i am so desperate
  for understanding
  are you not tortured as i?
  am i truly alone?
  always i understood
  you would be with me
  where ever i was
  why aren’t you 
  where i am?
  as the blood drips
  i long for you
  but i know i’m dull and rusted
  why can’t anything last through my fall?
  why must i always be so destroyed?
  the need is pulling me down
  as you watch from above
  and i fall apart as i drown

shira yael