Wayward

and this is the way I spend my day
writing down the words
I cannot say to you,
the dreams that scare me
with their beauty, and the moments
of simple care that shake
the foundation of my disbelief system
and capture this passion in
stark relief, making me ache
for you all over
again.

and I've heard that one should never
fall in love with a friend
unless willing to see all that was
cherished end with averted eyes,
uncomfortable silences and an abrupt stagger
through hell. the rending violence of
lost love compounded by the
yearning to tell, to confide in
the architect of such uncharted
agonies.

and I know that passion and
desire bordering on obsession or
possession
can play passenger to simple lust
or sidecar to the repression of it.
such fires never last, only able to burn
hot and fast and furious and so
so quickly that all is consumed
leaving only the ashes of trust
and hands full of regrets. but
my heart won't let that be true of this
emotion, won't allow me to forget the days
dedicated to so many
smiles & dreams & laughs
& tears & jokes & memories
fragments of selves
that only seem new because fear
always tries to choke life and
replace hope and faith with
lament.

and I've thought more than my mind
can hold, loved more than here --or ever--
told, and still there's so much untapped,
unseen, whole territories of my
devotion to you unmapped.
and I've come to the conclusion that
my considerable confusion is just
another side effect of the way
you affect me without even meaning
to. so whatever else it is--and it
might be crazy, could be evil,
is possibly worse than unfair and into
sincerely perverse--i know this
much is true:
I cannot & will not
pretend for anyone that
I don't love you.