My love is not an I, I, I
It’s a you, you, you
An us, us, us.
My love cannot be put to bed
It never closes its eyes
It never sleeps—can’t be laid to rest.
My love cannot ungrow
It’s for all seasons
Blossoms in the sunshine and the moonlight.
My love is an “original goodness”
A remembered dream
That which can resuscitate a heart.
You can’t love me
There’s no chance
Built a wall around my heart
Surrounded by a cage
And then a bunch of booby traps
Don’t try to force your way through
I’m no boyfriend, no part-time lover
Not even qualified for a one-night stand
I’m one-hundred-percent husband material
So don’t blow me a kiss
I’ll just blow it away
Mi casa es no su casa
My house is not your house
My house is hers, just hers, always hers.
Rain used to be
My favorite at midnight
Now it’s just you
And a thousand hugs and kisses
Under a cherry moon
I never grow tired of repeating:
I love you; I love you; I love you
By Benjamin Grossman and Cassa Bassa
Her emerald beauty circled his upright being
She stretched her sublime allure to capture the snow
He felt the weight in totality
It exceeded what he could possibly endure
Most days there was a smokey haze between them
And this fog formed uneven walls
With tiny openings just wide enough
To let toxic fumes leak through
In desperation, she let out her slow poison
He turned himself inside out to survive
But was never the same man as before
Nor she the same woman
They had interwoven like a tree wrapped in vines
They wanted to thrive under any conditions
That’s what all lovers long to do
Tragically they couldn’t harness the moonlight
Nor grow within the embers of dying flames
(This is part of a collaborative poetic effort between myself and Cassa Bassa. Make sure you check out her blog by visiting Flicker Of Thoughts. She’s a favorite poetess of mine.)
I don’t love you
I know that now.
Perhaps I did at first
But I’m unsure.
I’ve overthought the subject of us more than once
Concluded only this: I care for you
In a way that far exceeds love’s feebleness
And in words that are yet to even exist.
I don’t know the perfume of your skin
But I bet it’s some poetry
I don’t know the flavor of your lips
But I’m sure it’s sweet and savory
I don’t know the beauty of your walk
But I’m thinking rather divinely
I don’t know the shape of your love
But I’m guessing it’s extraordinary
I do know, however, the rarity of your face
And, my darling, it’s some kind of poetry
So I have this issue and
there’s no exact medical term for it.
But when I look into your eyes
I’m transported to a place where
it always rains sunshine.
And maybe that doesn’t sound like an issue.
But when I really, really miss you
it feels like some incurable disease
akin to an elephant using my chest as a scale
or a vampire sucking my soul through a straw.
So yeah, I have this issue, I think
where I fall deeper in love
with you every nanosecond.
And maybe you have it, too?
Your love was something like a butterfly:
Beautiful one day
Dead the next.
all the other
fish in the sea
look like sharks.
So maybe I won’t be your
good morning or good night
Maybe I won’t be able to
bake you that birthday cake from scratch
or massage your favorite oil
into your hair or even paint your toenails
your favorite shade of sea green.
And maybe we won’t be able to cry together
or hold each other’s hands delicately, tenderly, tightly
when it really matters—when it really counts
Because maybe love doesn’t conquer everything
and that’s the real lesson, the real truth
hidden beneath our utopian relationship
But you know what?
I still believe our love has no half-life.