The Goblin called Love

I wish my heart could speak for itself.

I'm not qualified to speak for it.

I wish I could ink out this love letter with its contents.

If it had its way—

if it could take form—

it would whisk you away to the Garden of Eden

and Eve you out.

I feel like He took a rib from me and made you for me.

Feminism would be outraged

and insinuate that I attempt to claim ownership over you.

In fact, the converse is true:

I choose to be owned by you.

Flesh of my flesh.

Blood of my blood.

We feel so right—we can’t be wrong.

This is no poem;

it lacks coherence.

This is me attempting to lay love down on paper.

Attempting to contain the uncontainable.

To capture life as it escapes a corpse—

impossible.

What I feel for you is beyond describable.

And every time I attempt to express it,

I fail dismally.

Trying to explain it is like trying to breathe life into Frankenstein.

This out-of-this-world feeling—

this gratifying appreciation of an amazing woman—

this craving for your warmth and presence—

this feeling that I’ve transcended

and touched love through you...

It’s a morbid need to paint it for you,

to open my hand and show you its nature,

believing I have it within my grasp.

This trance-like writing that probably has you puzzled

is exactly why I can’t do more

than just say:

I love you.

I fail at expressing exactly how I feel for you.

I know I’m enchanted by you.

I should stop.

Insanity is knocking at the door.

“I love you” is the best I can say for now.

But I promise—

I will try again,

in the near future,

to show you this goblin that only exists

in my heart and mind:

my love for you.

Why can’t I capture it?

Why can’t I imprison it,

surround it with walls of words

so that it doesn’t escape—

and then open the cage

so you can see it,

palpate it,

feel how I feel?

I promise you,

one day I will capture it and show it to you—

this mythic creature called:

Dee’s love for you.