Live Your Verb

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Tag: love (page 2 of 3)

Love at First Coffee

Photograph of a couple kissing in a coffee shop

Image: Lauren Belknap Photography

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A Lion and a Lighthouse

I want to love
a man who is
a lion

A wild creature

Loud
with his courage
and his pride

and his love

A man who lives
with abandon,
who is unbroken

and
unchained,

Even by love
Even by me

 

I want to love
a man who is
a lighthouse

A constant

A map of
the way home,
a map of
the safe places

A man who will
wait and know
I will come back
to him

soon

 

I want to love
a man who has
a whole universe
inside his soul,

a man who can
hold
a whole universe
within his arms

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road trip

Our favorite place
was nowhere

in between
the past
the present
the destination

(the obligation)

We were free

underneath a square
of sunlight and

only those long lines
stretched out before us
as far as we could see

We could have gone
anywhere

on a whim
on a flick of the dial

(on love)

We could have gone
anywhere

without a map
with each other

(We could have
missed the turn)

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first date

Let’s not prolong this
by preserving the
propriety,
sipping our
Acceptable First Date Beverages,
asking the Polite Questions.

Tell me what I really want to know.
Tell me the Important Things.

Will You Kiss Me?
If we are out among the crowds,
sun in our eyes,
people bustling past, and you
want to kiss me, will you
just
do it?

Who Are You?
Will your eyes light up
as you remember
an orange summer sunrise, the
tart sweetness of blackberries
on your tongue, at long last
reaching the peak of a mountain?
Will you flirt and daydream and
laugh with abandon?

Are You Someone
I Could Love?
Will you be at home
in my arms?

Will You Be at Home
In Your Own Skin?

Could You Fall For Me,
In That Way
we did when we were younger,
hurling ourselves off
cliffs and clouds,
so anxious to lose our footing?

Do you realize
there is more than one way
to be naked?
Do you realize
these are the Important Things?

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Too Much to Ask

I wanted him to look at me
the way a poet gazes
at the bright orb moon.

I wanted him to soak me up
like brittle clay drinks in
the first rain.

I wanted him to touch me
with the ache of lovers
after the longest absence.

I wanted him to hear me
as a composer feels
the vibration of strings
on the air.

I wanted him.

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Love, No Matter What

Andrew Solomon discusses his research with parents of exceptional children and the unconditional love and compassion they find through coping with differences and disabilities.

 

“A lot of the time, the question of parenthood is: what do we validate in our children and what do we cure in them?”

“I don’t support subtractive models of love, only additive ones.”

“I saw how splendor can illuminate even the most abject vulnerabilities.”

- Andrew Solomon, writer on politics, culture and psychology

 

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O Sweetest of Songs

Excerpt from Liebes-Lied (Love Song) by Rainer Maria Rilke, Austrian poet

 

How shall I hold on to my soul, so that it does not touch yours? How shall I lift it gently up over you on to other things? I would so very much like to tuck it away among long lost objects in the dark, in some quiet, unknown place, somewhere which remains motionless when your depths resound. And yet everything which touches us, you and me, takes us together like a single bow, drawing out from two strings but one voice. On which instrument are we strung? And which violinist holds us in his hand? O sweetest of songs.

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Postcard from the Clouds

Maybe the ending isn’t important. Maybe the only thing that will matter is that I jumped in, soaked you up without hesitation, loved you so completely. I sit here empty-handed and yet my heart is full – brimming. Because I kissed and laughed and flew and fell, and because I found the beauty in all of it. Because I chose a passionate life, even when it hurt, even when it meant losing the one who had sparked the flame. I lived. Maybe I can’t take you with me but I can carry this spirit (our spirit) with me, reincarnated, and braid it into my wings… I may fly farther but I will keep it, always.

I wish the same for you. That you will find new wings. That you will remember us. That you will remember the lightness of love. That you will live, really live, and fly again after each fall.

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Works in Progress

If I write an exquisite place, if I write it with the intimate detail of a poet describing a lover, so specific that the words become a painting – if I write it, can I go there? Can I step inside the page, into a place where he is so far away that I dare not miss him?

If I write about the walls of my heart, tiny tears sliding down them like wax upon the surface of a lit candle, will these walls melt in on themselves? Will they burn off the remnants of this almost-love, leave an open space I can begin to fill up again?

If I write about the blue of his eyes, write it into hymns about skies and oceans and old denim jeans, write it until I have exhausted every possibility of a blue vision, will his eyes fade from memory? Will that particular color, those heavy brows, that lingering stare be less familiar? Will his become just another set of blue eyes that met mine in passing, soon to be forgotten?

I will write every inch of his skin to stop missing him. I will fill notebooks to be able to wake up on the other side, to leave this in a big, inky mess upon my floor…

(If I find any other words, I will tell a different story.)

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