Love poems are hard to write because you often try to push a feeling down your throat, like flushing beer down the toilet
and it's not like roaming white flowers in a green field and the essence of hyacinth is not in the air but instead
love can be a twenty-year-old dusty, moldy carpet, once brown, but now it is so dirty that it looks white
like the garland of a bride, its soft cushion is warmer than holding hands in front of the frozen food aisle.
Writing a love poem is hard because for me, love is falling asleep on the couch while watching a movie with your friends, and these are my friends, and this could be their love.
I want to speak of confessions to a lover underneath a windy single tree overlooking the ocean, I want to speak of the gut feeling that makes somebody who doesn't feel their arms feel so connected to their bones and their flesh.
I'm talking about the feeling of awakening, of nervousness, of a shy, afraid little girl in a woman's body that just wants to be loved.
This is not my love poem, it is theirs.
I'm the hands that paint a dream that I would love for them to have,
this is as close as I get to love,
to wish it upon somebody else,
because somebody like me is somebody like them,
an oblivious man-boy that's afraid to feel real excitement,
a confused boy-man moving up in the world,
a hurt little girl that's afraid of rejection and being abandoned,
fearful of the judgment of others,
because
she is afraid of herself,
so, of course, I want them to succeed, because if they do,
that means there is hope for me and you too, and more importantly, it would mean there is hope for them, to not be defined by their mood, who they think they are, or who they want to become, but just to be together, forever,
in front of that windy single tree overlooking the ocean, or cuddling inside the frozen pizza and ice cream refrigerator, or making out and coughing up dusty moldy carpet bits or to split a joint while blowing a kiss, all of that and none of it,
that is love to me, to them, to you
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