does the Sun know
of our orbit?
does the Sun care?
does the Sun know
how many
are at her mercy?
does the Sun know
how many
subsist
on her glory?
do you know
you are the light
in my heavens?
do you know I exist?
Tag: love poetry
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and life—
for too long,
it kept me from you.
but I’ve decided
no one—
not the fates,
nor the hand of god
can keep me from knowing
the taste
of your breath,
or the very song
of your heartbeat.
I’ve decided
I could write novels
just about the way
your eyes crinkle
when you smile.
And I’ve decided
there is a novel
in the way
your gaze
erases a lifetime
of being invisible.
-
you are what songs are made of,
that celestial dew,
inspiration like honey
from the heavens.
but I worship in hiding.
they would persecute me
should they know.
so my prayers
are poems scribbled, torn out and thrown,
hoping I can forget this love.
needing to forget this love.
but
needing you more.
-
magic still exists, right?
i swear it.
i could have sworn i got a whiff
when we brushed arms in passing.
i could have sworn
it glimmered in your eyes
when you tilted your head back,
and sang to the world,
your glorious laugh.
could have sworn
i could tell the future,
when,
for the first time,
you held my hand.
no,
i never saw fate more clearly.
-
and when you hold my hand,
my heart speeds up,
but time slows down.
your head tilts, laid on my chest,
& the turning of the earth: it hiccups,
if only for a moment.
and your laugh—
oh, your laugh,
I can only die happy
if that sound
were my last.
this love: it is not quiet.
it burns in my gut,
it needs to be sung—
to shout, to scream, to holler,
“Look, world— it is her. She
is the one—
the one
who is a full Moon
on the darkest night—
or, no— she is the Sun,
and I the pallid Moon,
and if I shine,
it is but her
borrowed light.”
-
can you feel the flame dying? this star of ours, the celestial hearth we orbit, she dims.
premonitions of heat death — you inch farther and farther away. our gravity is not enough. this dance comes to an end— you are drawn in by another, a gravity far greater than mine.
goodbye old friend, goodbye.
i pray this star is warm enough for me alone, but my oceans already turn to ice. my glacial heart slows its beating— heat death, heat death, heat death— again, the premonition.
prescient vision, it sees not the future, but the now too clearly. my love is its own cipher: the very thing which bitters our parting makes shouts of whispers, cymbals of subtlety. they broke my heart long before you spoke the words.
and what is heartbreak but this: to hold someone near to your heart still who has long departed? the heart speaks not in terms of physical distance— to it, you are still close. it reaches out, expecting your embrace— it recoils at the thin air. it reaches again, cannot fathom your absence.
where are you, my love?
-
Before I go on, I need to make something very clear: I love her. Deeply. I could list infinitudes of clichés about the ways in which she makes me feel – that she’s the missing puzzle piece I’ve longed for all my life, she made my life go from black and white to technicolor, that I’d give up my soul just for a whiff of her scent – but I fear none of them can adequately explain the intensity of my passion. How can I explain an orchestral symphony to the deaf? How can I explain sunsets to the blind?
How can I explain the depth of my love to anyone?
Alas, I must try. When I tell you that I love her, I mean to tell you that it feels like my entire life was a long process of approaching the great singularity of our meeting, and that all things have been secondary to that one extraordinary moment. I mean to tell you that our hearts are plainly connected by a golden thread, the only source of direction to be found in the labyrinth of the universe. I mean to tell you that she is the end of the labyrinth. I mean to tell you that our spirits were cut from the very same cloth, that our love feels like deep kinship, like a grand homecoming. I mean to tell you that the glory of our union is like the feeling of graduating after many long, grueling years of study, like throwing your cap in the air in sweet triumph. I mean to tell you that it is like a physicist toiling at his desk for many years, his entire life’s work culminating in one grand moment of at last reconciling all variables into one Grand Unified Theory of Everything. I mean to tell you that she is my Grand Unified Theory of Everything, that she is my Everything, and my life had not started until our relationship began.
I didn’t know I was homesick until you held me. I didn’t know I was addicted to you until I had my very first fix. I didn’t know I was freezing until I knew your warmth.
What wasted years! My hands had never done anything worthwhile until they held yours. My eyes had never truly seen until they drank in your bare form. I didn’t know I had a voice until you heard me. I was virgin until you deflowered my heart.
Life before her was not life at all, but a prelude to it, an agonizingly long gestation period where miscarriage was threatened numerous times. The glory of our consummated union was like at last being born and taking my first breath.
…
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Hi all. Posting this for my fellow writers who regard their blogs as PRECIOUS. I half-fell for a phishing scam right now.
I got an email from “WordPress” (wasn’t WordPress, but looked extremely legitimate) saying my domain needed to be renewed. Didn’t think anything of it, as I coincidentally happened to just order a new debit card, so it seemed plausible that my payment failed.I went to the website, entered my login details, and was about to enter my card details when I realized that I wasn’t on the WordPress website, but was instead on a site called maxbarkod.com.
I logged into WordPress.com and saw that I wasn’t due for a renewal until August of 2026. I went back to maxbarkod.com and attempted to log in with an incorrect password and it still let me in.
Fortunately, I didn’t enter my card details, but I did enter my password. I immediately changed my password and enabled 2FA.
This almost got me. I could have been at risk of losing all of my poetry.
The email sender was domains.notice@clipeo.be — please be on the lookout, protect your website, and verify all such emails (and report if you receive an email from them or any other phishers!).
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did we make love? I’m not sure. I don’t think we “made” anything. I think we already had plenty.
I think the lovemaking was metaphor, I think it was art. I think art is taking something ordinary and turning it into a symbol, the redemption of matter. To take what is mundane and make it sacred, some secret act of magic, some enchantment.
I don’t think we made love— we already had all the love in the world. I think we made art, though. I think we told each other of our love, a confession: our hearts already were one. Our bodies followed, told of that truth.