A meditation on Love
Here’s the thing:
I want to love
the way that those people on the silver screen
tell you to love,
imply that love
is that farce.
She loves him
He loves her
She doesn’t love any of them.
What a tangle web they weave!
Why can’t they just have a threesome
and get over it?
See:
I want to love
with the intensity that implies
all that
drama,
jealousy,
(is it him or him?)
possession
is what love is.
Is the only kind valid.
Reminder:
I do love
I love with the kind of intensity
that makes your stomach sick,
that makes you ache in your very bones.
My teeth and marrow
and ligaments and arteries
are full of the stuff.
Cut me open and watch
love come spilling out.
A rebuttal:
That’s not what they mean when they say Love.
Sure,
You’re sore with the effort of loving them
but,
You’re not in love with them.
Sure,
everything in you burns when you think of them
but,
You won’t marry them.
(Ignore, for a moment,
that marriage only exists
to trade women
and property
between men)
Nevermind:
My heart
and my mind
and my very fingertips
are overflowing with love,
the love for my people
my family
and friends
and people who are somehow
both,
neither.
And what does it matter
(if it matters)
that I’m not
in love with them?
If I don’t love them like that?
A parting shot:
Love doesn’t exist in one form,
it exists in a myriad of them.
And love certainly
does not exist
for capitalist consumption,
for greeting cards
and valentine’s dates,
and a ring worth three months salary,
and purchasing a 5,000 dollar dress,
and a nice house
with a nice (ecologically unsound) yard,
and a dog,
and 2.5 kids.
(No matter how much one wishes it.)
