Dear Love

(Revised)

Dear Love,

I have let you become undefined. My reasonable existence comes with my immediate expectations. I look to the unveiling of my vision to see beyond my own sight. My imagination has become bruised, my heart palpitations has become a rhythm I can’t dance to. The questionable sense of life comes in the fallacy of a lovers drought. The discomfort has become a fraught, the bitter agony awaiting a call for an awakening. My lover has become my journal. I empty my vessel hoping to return to the comfort of my suite. Yet, my lovers duty is called in the secret places we meet, the dungeon. I play the dragon slayer hoping that I’m rescued from Repunzel’s revenge. I seek to ascend, the conclusive truth, collided with the lies of my foreshadowing pain. Dear love what’s your name? We have become strangers passing by, the breeze of love has become cold, I’m awaiting beneath the surface, yet, still drowning in what’s worthy. The tales follow the trails of untraditional cycles, yet the deserting of my soul comes from the withered agility. A minds proclivity, the mindless civility, living for the mysteries. Already there is love, from birth to death, from death to life the depth of love as a sacrifice. Love shavings shedding, as I sharpen myself, leaving no room for leverage but taking a leap over the ledge. Beheaded at the sorcerers stone, the rod that strikes, the magic within, is the power of the bitter light. Entrusted as love is euthanized, empowered, from the enamored of my enamel of my lovers bite. Embroidered with the mark of the pain that lasts forever. Carried inside the asylum of my own insanity, killing my ego and dying, yet love finds me in my divine timing, defying definitions as deflatable. Debating again with I love you, it becomes a tune that’s atoned with fuck you. I’m stuck here thinking bodily energy is the same symmetry that ignited the powers of love. Left in the middle of moments I’ve lived through but never had the reasons to enjoy. I dream of a white dress, a house, a farm, a picket fence and a man who’s strong in his arms capable to uplift. Yet love has been a repeat of codependency an accolade of repetitious desires of unlearned lessons. The discretion of self hatred no woman dares to speak, the feeling is unworthy of the uncertainty of what lovers teach. Dear love, can we meet?