Oh, and by the way, I love you.
Let’s get married. We can break up tomorrow, because these words don’t mean what we were taught they mean so we can redefine them to our liking and laugh at the lack of comprehension.
Let’s fuck, the friends-with-benefits way, the no-strings attached way that means that we get a glimpse into the soul of someone else and also, maybe, leave small pieces of our hearts behind like bloody bedstains on white sheets (I was here, these are my initials carved into the proverbial bark of this ancient tree).
Oh, and by the way I love you, because love doesn’t mean what we think it means; it doesn’t mean forever or even necessarily 5 minutes later; it is an impermanent thing that we massage and rework over and over and over and I love you today differently than I loved you yesterday, and that’s ok. I still need from you today what I needed yesterday- be present, be here. Be real.
Because let’s run away together while we talk about our stable lives we love, our homes we have cultivated because “away” now means “toward” and we are running toward those things which make us whole and I am smiling as you’re telling me about him, about her, about them, and we are minutes and miles apart and I am running in place because I am exactly where I need to be.
Oh, and let’s please light the world on fire, in that way that means we are all born of ashes; let’s find the phoenix in each of us and watch what is born from destruction when we are entirely present in living.
Oh, and by the way, I love you. Have I told you? I think it might scare you that I hold with such ferocity, but then, there is a wolf that lives in me and the gentlest hold still pricks like canines pressing into soft flesh. (But God, do I remember your flesh, yielding and firm and the taste of salt, raw against my lips with every kiss.)
Let’s write our own language, made of words too pressurized to use because why not? We are pressurized lives that fight to exist, we are the cracks and broken fragments of traveler’s stories, we are strangers in alleys and galaxies swirling with gravitational pull. I am you. You are me.
So what does it mean that we love and fuck and marry and hold and burn and cherish and tear?
We are alive, right now. Your lips cascading across my body, my hands roaming like the wind that brings the trees to moan. We are broken, and our language is cracked; we are insatiable and ravenous, we are the words of power we were told to use sparingly, lest they lose their meaning.
Use your words, the extravagant ones. Language is not fine china, to sit upon a shelf, gathering dust. Lace your language with honey and anticipation. Taste the power your words can have over miles and minutes and millimeters.
Because by the way, I love you. Because love is reckless and recklessness is on the edge of what we are told we should be.
Be reckless with me, when we hurt no one but ourselves with holding back. Speak extravagantly; dine on a meal of abundance and do not worry for what we cannot know.
Because by the way, I still love you, from beginning to end of these sentences and sensations. I love your glimmering darkness shining through, rich and heady and tempestuous as a storm. I love your eyes, in the moment when you look at me, and your hand on my shoulder and between my legs and the place inbetween where you nicked a piece of my heart along the way.