Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Selfish Love

I love you selfishly
When I do something to make you laugh
it is because I long to hear your laugh like thunder
When I whisper something of seduction
it is to feel your lips on my neck
It is of my own welfare that I love you so
knowing you delight me
in the ever changing contemplation that falls on your face
when you are wondering
what I must be thinking when I am in pursuit of art
or literature or trying to put a poem in my head
one of Eliot's twisted tales of April's cruelty

And when you ask me why
"why must you push me away?"
Again it is the selfish need to have you close
but still be my own person
When you plant tulips in the garden
you know they will tower over the others
they seek that attention
and today I am standing on my tip toes
looking for you waiting for you to look for me
in this dance we do of lovers
and "was there Spring before I loved you?"

Time changed the day I decided I could love you
the clock was ticking for it's own pleasure
and had little consequence in my life
time marked by the next time I could know your smile
days marked by the moment you ask me
"do you know that I love you?"
and knowing you take the air from my lungs when you ask
and for a few moments time stands still
and all there is, is you
and when you add those moments together
through months and then somehow in a miracle of time's march
add them up and you have this life
one touching the other and connection only in admiration,
a little something we give eachother
and in that space
I am truly happy

I would take all the love you give me
then ask for more
put that love in a basket and dine on it
on a blanket
in some field where the grass grows soft and green
where lady bugs land on your arm just to feel that softness
where bee buzz feeding the world
where a weary bike traveler would stop
just to tell a girl he loves her
and your neck, your spine, the core of you
an oak tree
where I can rest
and whisper words of thanks
to a God who hears all


I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
Sylvia Plath

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