There exists within them

A quiet understanding of my world.

They see the concepts

That words don't exist for;

The ones that structure my existence.

They knew from the beginning

That it would take them

A very long time

To learn me.

And yet they still sit here

Connecting me;

Patiently reforming my complexities,

Weaving synapses

Between the things I already know.

Knitting me without a pattern

Because they know I don't have one,

Nor do I have the desire to predict

How they will change me.

They are tethered to me

Not with conversations and interlacing fingers

But despite them,

And instead leaning upon

The intricate language

Of mutual sentience.

Can you write of the ocean if scared you may drown?

Of flights through the sky when you're stuck on the ground?

Of folks and of places you've never been around?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write of the past if you're presently now?

Of future though time travel has no way how?

Of school days despite that you've taken your bow?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about villains if you're goody two shoes?

Of happiest endings when you have the blues?

Of triumphs and troubles you've never gone through?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about creatures that no one has known?

Of far-away countries from the warmth of your home?

Of fun times with friends when you've always been alone?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about space if you've never left earth?

Of measures of treasures with your penny's worth?

Of mothers when you have never given birth?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write of finding that one Mr. Right?

Of that special someone making you his wife?

Of magical days and romantical nights?

I don't know about you but I do.

And then, I dream... A girl can only dream...

And hope and pray with might,

That someday maybe my words will be true-

But, in the meantime, I write.

Steady homes are comprised of skilled taxidermists. Love dies, it cannot be helped.

It is a bizarre work of taxidermy; the preservation of love. At first the motivation is a simple one. Almost logical. You do it for your children; a clear benefit for humanity, to aid the continuation of the species. In the right mood, you can even convince yourself that it has some scientific merit; that you are compelled towards the aim of preserving the reality of love, in categorizing it for posterity, in proving that it exists.

But you know the truth deep down; it isn't science, it is art. You do it because it feels good to view such beauty.

With first deliberate, then habitual stitches, you sew the expectations to the memories: a now-favorite meal cooked poorly the first time. A flower petal pressed in a book too soon, turned moldy, lost forever. An overly longed for kiss, sloppily carried out, drunkenly even, to dull the nervousness, to reign in the pleasure. (When you are young it is all too easy to believe that pleasure will kill you if you don't hold back.)

It is an obsessive work. A work of endurance; dissecting the past; stitching naive fantasy to corporeal fact. Like constructing a god from the clouds.

These gods of enamor are enjoyed all the more for their flaws. Flaws are what make a thing seem real. The unbridled joy of finding an unexpected ticklish spot on a mortal deity will never be surpassed...

Your memories constantly work at this gift for you, like a doting grandmother would; the patchwork quilt of love, sewed from skin and bone and death, stuffed with sentimental fluff.

Sometimes the pieces get torn or malformed, and you cry from the guilt of it; from a primal shame; a failure to live up to the vision of perfect romance.

Sometimes your expectations are still alive during the memory-embalming procedure. It hurts, tearing flesh from form, reattaching hopes askew, jutting dreams at unnatural angles. You wind up horrified at what you've done; contemplating the soul-saving possibility that it was always ugly to begin with and you were just blind; dazzled by some cosmic instinct to imbue everything with pulchritude.

No matter how beautiful the vision was it always gets torn apart by time; emaciated, bedraggled, dusty.

You can sew it whole again, plump it up, bring it back to life as though you're Dr Frankenstein. In preserving these gods of passion you feel like you understand how it was that you were made. The creature you create from the ragged remains will never be the same as it was. Even if it moves, even if it lusts, even if it speaks to you. Nothing is ever the same after death.

But even knowing you're kidding yourself, you can't stop believing in the beauty of love. None of us can.

You can't help but look back at the thing you helped perpetuate, admiring it nostalgically and thinking... it's alive.

hug me and hold me, heart in your hands

fingers intertwined, our toes in the sand

your smile errs leftwards and that seems so right

your eyes shine with laughter even without light

a safe place, a haven, a home on two feet

warm skin on warm skin and i feel complete

my worst critic, best fan, and honest observer

i've come so far now, and with you i'll go further

i think about you in all the little things

i'll face life with you in whatever it brings

we planted a future, nurtured the seed

now i walk through our garden, and it is all that i need.

I believe in something more than love exist, because during a full moon, I'm the only one he smiles at. Between each new breath a life is being shared with a heart, beating for two. There you are admiring the moments we have stumbled upon, while my hands reach out for the only human I will ever love. Our bodies entangled like wild stars; forming a celestial Knot never to be undone.

They say love is a thing of raw power, but so are storms. You stare at the sky and try by force of will to summon a cloud from over the hilltops. Love is that mystery. The force of its creation is beyond mortals.

Then as we go through our daily tasks, with minds full of minuscule matters, there can be a day when the forces of nature conspire and collide. The all powerful electrical storm crackles and strikes. A single lightning bolt splits and strikes two humans directly binding them forever through this lifetime and beyond.

That binding lasts through lifetimes. That intertwining of two souls does not fear the fading of time or the complexities of circumstances.

It is the union written about from the birth of humanity to this day. And, when it happens it needs to be honored, cherished, and exalted because both lightning and true love never strike twice.