Love Letter
Dear Love,
I want to start and end this letter
With only honest declarations
And thoughtful representations
Of how you’ve managed to fuck with my life
In the most beautiful and horrible ways.
The fact that the phrase
“We don’t get to choose whom we love”
Even exists,
Is a cosmic middle finger
Aimed at the hearts of fleshy monkeys everywhere.
Not just because it exists,
But because it’s true.
The one saving grace that underlies those words,
And actually serves,
Is that we do get to choose how we love them.
Seriously, Love,
I do love you,
And I hate you too.
You have turned my head into a bowl full of electric eels
Made of all the feels
that keep swimming faster and faster,
until beauty becomes disaster.
I implore you
To help me stop deploring you,
And would love to meet counterparts
That make my heart shimmer, and mind glimmer.
Open handed givers and receivers of adventure and whimsy
That aren’t looking to manipulate, change, or control me.
You always give yourself to me with caveats.
I know that you are a concept, a verb, a noun…
But I feel like you have been imbued with a personality,
And it’s one that takes great pleasure in the art of travesty.
Standing off to the side with an impish grin,
Wringing your hands together,
As whatever new debacle you’ve set in motion sets in.
You’ve given me large chunks of time,
where I felt like I had you figured out,
a smile on my face, and a whip to my step,
but then suddenly my partner’s head is filled with doubt,
about us,
about themselves,
about the rising price of tea in China,
the destruction of our ecosystem,
the fact that I am autonomous in my body,
and they are not fond of that,
or that we don’t want everything the same.
Which as a sidenote,
no one should want everything the same.
That’s lame.
If I wanted to live in an echo chamber
I’d unfriend everyone that disagrees with me,
And not just on social media, but in life.
The Thai put it best when they say,
“Same Same, but different.”
Similar in many ways, but not the same,
And with the ability to change our minds,
Before the relationship turns from a well-oiled machine
Into one that’s just a grind.
I haven’t had that yet,
But I think it’s out there.
Which is also another bone I have to pick with you!
Love,
You slather hope on my toast
Like butter that’s been sitting on top
Of a warm oven.
Heaps and gobs of it.
When I want to throw in the towel
You hand me another perfectly toasted piece,
Steaming with salted chances I’ve yet to take,
Glistening with stories,
Sensual savory dew drops of lips I’ve yet to kiss,
And BAM!
I TAKE ANOTHER GOD DAMN BITE
BECAUSE I LOVE FUCKING TOAST!
Who doesn’t?
When done right it’s transcendent.
Otherworldly.
A paragon of deliciousness.
Something with a softness and a crunch to it.
Yes, Love,
I’m talking about you.
Though this piece makes me want actual toast too.
You know what, Love?
You fucked me up at a young age.
My parents, though not perfect,
Deeply loved one another.
They slow danced together.
Kissed and cuddled.
Made bad decisions together,
And then backed each other up
No matter how wrong they were.
I don’t want exactly what they had,
But it was my first and strongest representation of you.
44 years of that,
Which means I watched 38 of them,
Which means you spent 38 years fucking with me
Going,
“Hey…look at what they have. Don’t you want it?”
Truthfully,
I don’t want that.
I want something different.
I want partners that don’t just agree with me unless they actually do.
I want something more expansive,
And with more than one person at a time.
But the example is still there in the back of my mind.
You’re pervasive,
You know that!
Yeah,
You know that.
I know you do.
I think you wear a monocle, Love,
And have a black top hat,
And possibly a thin curved mustache that you twist in your fingers.
Your gender is androgynous,
And your intentions are devilish.
Wait…
I’m putting two and two together here.
Love, are you the Devil?
Not that I believe in the Devil,
But I do believe in you,
And therefore could be giving faith to an entity
I thought I’d foresworn when I gave up Catholicism.
Something to think on.
Maybe the very idea of you is a sin.
I’m rambling…
But that’s what you do to me, Love.
You turn me into a rambling fool of a man
That looks into someone else’s eyes and sees a future with them.
It’s misleading at worst,
And annoying at best,
Because when they stare back with the same look
I know I’m hooked,
Lined,
And sinking.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, Love.
Please just give your games a rest.
Let me exist in peace.
Be happy with sweetness fleeting,
Without searching for more meaning.
Or don’t.
I don’t know if I actually mean any of that.
Faithfully Yours,
Because I seem to have no choice,
-Zach