Ten years and you ask why I love the way I do?
Ten billion reasons but then your beauty renders my pen dry. Beyond a point I have no words. I only want to shut up and look at you until my eyes grow old. Love is wild, blind, madness.
I love you.
And I am prepared to say it until your skin is singed with the words by my breath.
My lips to your navel.
My life in the blink of your eyelids.
Your hair, let it be my blindfold. Let me see the dark of your tresses before my eyes greet the light.
In your beauty one is a poet. In your love one is a sufi mystic. In your embrace one surrenders. By your mouth one is transformed into plasma. Your kisses are vertigo. Your fingers in my hair are failed parachute strings. Your fingers on my cheek are lacerations on the imperfection of time. Your breath is a brick klin, burning and moulding my desire.
Your fingertips are the entrance and exit of all desire, worship, surrender. I lay at their door my eyes, my lips, and the soft thud of my heart. And your neck… Your neck is a ski slope where I go to die. No part of my being is incidental in its love for you. Each eyelash will meet its purpose upon your body.
From thousands of miles away my gaze does not move from your face, beloved. I have touched you in ways that have made words get up and leave the room. I have loved you in ways that has made language raise the white flag of surrender.
I tell my beloved, “let me have my way with you.”
My beloved asks, “and what is your way?”
My way is to extinguish the desire of ages upon your being.
I grow anxious for a time when I can't show you – “look. This is what it is. This is the volcano. This is the sea. This is the whirlpool, the cave, the fog, the blood, the speed, the gasp, the low moan, the exhale, the steady silence. This is what i feel".
The seasons exist because the sun and moon stay locked in the eternal struggle of who stays in the sky longer to gaze upon you. And so, they take turns and rejoice in solstices.
Time passes. Miles come in between; minutes hours and days. Then years. Ten long years. But your beauty, your beauty remains. I remember the pebble shore of your neck. The vulnerable beauty of your hands. I remember your smile and the way it lights up cities in fireworks.
Memory is fragment and yet with you,
with you it is a living anathema.
