A Kiss Would Mean Nothing If It Weren't for Love

Imageby Andrew M. Harbach31 Jul 2014

My aching is slow. I worry for that. I worry for what I have done to push you away and though I realize we are not good for each other, I cannot help but allow you to tenant my mind at what almost seems like every second. My aims are internally directed to please an indifferent and distant you. Retribution for your satisfied heart. This keeps me awake. I cannot far surmount truly all my own ambitions, because I have lost the partition I gave to my future self; the one with you in the picture.
Mountains are steeper, and when you ignore me, I careen downwards. Nothing to catch me but my own harshness, volcanic glass and cutting edge.

You don't want to hear it because of some hate you have jarred away, or because you lack any emotional investment. I, though, cannot simply tell myself that something was nothing and will be nothing for always after. Forever I see love when I see you. I've hated you as much as I do love you now. I really just taste sorrow. So if there is any peace within you, please pass it with the salt.
I know that you owe me nothing, but I'll love you for it all anyways.

True it is, I've met someone. I've met many people. I've become successful:
I've crafted my physique, I've professionalized my career; I've ambitiously prodded the social door and adventurously passed my attention from woman after different woman, who all but seem to have taken notice to the bigger wake I throw in the lake of civil construct. I've broken hearts, but then again, I've mourned my own. I've shared my own regrets but then somehow always find a path back to a place that is more sensitive to you than ever before. I'm still strangely comfortable there. At least within such a state, I have memories that I can set time aside to watch with copious amounts of alcohol. The beautiful man I've made from what I was (be not mistaken, I am least vain of many), now shares a garden to himself... Sweeter the yield were you to rain only once more.

Pages have no choice but to listen to the many things I say, no matter how verbose, no matter how bitter advice may come. My pen is an instrument of love and my words worth something, even if they only pushed you away. Between the lines was always pure passion for you. I'm dreaming. My thoughts, kept quiet, press me firm within the teeth of slumber. You're there. You're still here. Where you've never left and where you will stay with me. My lips are still posed by the laying of your last kiss because you never fall far from, too, my conscious memory. All the dream knows is that we are on vacation. All the dream knows is that making love lasts seven hours. All the dream says to me is "I love you" over and over again.

Sleeping with the fan, I fall asleep to travel distances with you. The wind through your hair, falling in waves against the neck I used to bury my face in. We are resting mountainside, where bursts of night-breath glaze the surfaces of your tired body and the chocolate sky makes a sweet niceness to the sun's counterpart. Sun and moon, I'll always use your light to shine on my own.