And So, It Is Named

And So, It Is Named

I have tired my words tonight, but I’m still going to try to say this.

Sometimes, I find myself overcome by a peculiar sort of fullness. It’s a sensation of weight, but not of burden. More so of.. Completion. And when I sit and close my eyes, it is the weight of the images behind my eyelids. It’s the physical presence of thought upon my forehead. Not weighing down, though.

Giving substance to thought.

The last time I wrote, I was trying to understand the complexities of intensity. Intensity of social interaction, of emotional attachment. Emotional attachment- what a clinical and deficient term for something so purely visceral. Visceral, like my gut would turn inside out. Like I had branded your name into my very marrow, but I could call it emotion, for want of a better explanation.

Where do these emotions lie? Are they the sands where our dreams spiral from? Are they the weight that keeps us grounded? If I give what you and I share, the name of emotion, the name of love, will it cover it? That visceral knot, like nails that have dug past flesh and sinew, and grown roots into my bones- can I call that hopeless tangle, that feverish fury, Love?

I don’t know.

For someone who deals in words, it’s a sad realization that I’ve tired them out. I’ve tired them all out. The phrases are worn and the rhymes are weary. And they all are completely incapable of expressing me anymore. That my body weighs down, with love. That I have come past the stage of missing you when you are not there, to knowing you are, you’re always there. And the fullness persists, like a hunger that has been permanently silenced. Like a starving man, who dreamt of a dry crust of bread, and found that he will now forever be eating a morsel with every flavor known to human beings, with the savory rasp of sinking his teeth into meat, and the decadence of biting into a crisp green apple, with the juices running down his chin.

I am that starved man.

And I found you.

But my words are tired. And I struggle to put that constellation of incoherent emotion into letters. And like the malnourished dreamer who can only call it ‘food’, my articulation is crippled, restricted by how handicapped words are.

And I am reduced to calling it Love.

Where Do You Love?

Where Do You Love? 

Where do you love me,
In the course of the day?
Am I your mornings, rainy and grey?
Or sunlight, a call to another beginning?
Am I your twilight, dim and still

Am I your night?

Where do you love me,
As a companion, as help?
Am I to subserviant, or
an equal, treated well the same
as you, do you look up to
me with respect
Where do you love me, when
I’m quiet, and you’ve left?

Where do you love me, tell me
Do you know what it is
to ache?
Have you learnt yet that to love
is to accept that
You can break?
Have you hurt yet, have you fallen
and seen that I stand
ready, to catch you if needs be
Have you needed to take
my hand?

Where do you love me, when
I’m angry and
you can’t understand?

There are mountains of upheaval, and
ripples of self flagellation
There are constellations of dreams and
Figments of imagination
And if you haven’t seen them yet, as
I have,
Where will you love me
When our demons come to call?
If you still don’t know, if
you’re still refusing to see it,
-if you’re refusing to say it

Will you love me at all?

(c)CM
14.08.2015

The problem with intensity, is how quickly it takes up capacity. Saturation… Like how you can have one bite of a
sinfully thick chocolate sundae, but maybe two, or three, if it’s a light vanilla. Like how you can drink your way through a six pack of beer, but four fingers of whiskey will sear into your brain. Probably why I’m okay with cigars and cigarettes- Hookah is for amateurs.

There’s a reason they call it a ‘burning intensity’. There’s also a reason that we find moments of focused emotion and energy scattered in a span of days, or weeks. Our minds do not reach epiphanies once each day- that cannot. We do not transcend except in parts. We do not look within except in glimpses. Our bodies, our nerves, our realization,
would blow a fuse. We are not built to function, with that sort of ferocity.

Even though we crave it.

We crave the fierceness. We reach for it. We retreat to lick our wounds and heal, just as quickly, too. It’s called our space. Some people need more of it, and some people need less. Some need seemingly none at all, and seem to thrive
off their day long social interactions and emotional attachments. Others are tired just by having to hold a conversation with a stranger. Making words with meaning in them… Seems like the unlikeliest thing that could take a toll on a body, but it does. Interaction is… a shift of essence. I suppose it’s only logical that it would drain us, or replenish us accordingly.
Makes me wonder about the physics of it. You seem to do both.

I wonder when I made that shift. I know how I made it, but I wonder about the ‘when’. Was it a subconscious choice? Was it a defense mechanism? I don’t know that. What I do know is that I chose to devote the sum total of my energies to loving you, and loving me. That completed me, fulfilled me, in a way I hadn’t thought possible. And those strands that I held on to, are all that remain. The intensity with which I love where I do, burns brighter than the lights of the rest of the world.
Insignificant, inconsequential. How much of ourselves we give away, how much we gain. It is astonishing how much who we choose to love changes us- as does how we choose to love.

Where does your flame burn from?

Where do you love?

City Lights

City Lights

I should be asleep
It’s half past three
But I’m standing in the cold, in
My balcony
Filling my nightly emptiness
with smoke
There’s some comfort in knowing
That the darkness is dotted
By city lights
Faces I don’t know
People I’ll never meet
But just as forlorn
As restless
as me
Tonight
They keep me company

©CM
10.08.2015

Separation Anxiety -I (Un)

Separation Anxiety -I (Un)

I swill you like wine, and
Suffer you like poison
I hold you like fire but
Breathe you like
Air
Like a smile of pure joy, born
Of walking on thorns
– so deliriously happy that
Your very bones don’t care

It doesn’t matter
Where you are
Far is near, near is here, and
Here is far

I could stand
Empty handed, and
You’re there

©CM
06.08.2015