«When one is alone, imperfection must be endured every minute of the day; a couple, however, does not have to put up with it. Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose? At the same time it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie, everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing. But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression for everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true. Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most—you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.»
It’s clear and comfortable outside
but her glow keeps me inside.
I feel her kisses when she’s away
and although she’s miles away
I don’t mind if others enjoy her—
she has a tendency of finding her
way into my arms without hesitation.
Sometimes I swear I hear her cackle
flipping through books and basketball
staring at horrible foot work.
I can’t wait to get home to enjoy
the two cents she has saved for me
or how her patience is keeping
that horrible attitude she has contained.
I don’t mind it. I don’t mind.
From what is given and peacefully
accepted, I think the “new shade of pink” you could become and all
the colors you are are phenomenal.
With all the smiles and chuckles or
any words or touch— I give to you.
You deserve more than my poor charge
or my tattooed branches as warmth;
But I surely hope I complement
the happiness already there.