Gloriously Free.

My love,

Is difficult.

She buffets me, wrenches me from myself,

Gets me back,

Fills me, completes me,

Confuses me.

My love,

I want her happiness

But I bring her down,

By being me.

She’s a paradox.

A bittersweet frustration turns

Into an electric blue anger,

And finally, swirls into

A scarlet love.

Collapses into passion.

My love,

I will love her.

Kiss, and the world ceases to matter.

Our passion leaves us breathless.

Touch her, and I regain innocence.

We are bound, by our own yellow cords,

Of an irrational conscience.

Break them. Scandalous happiness.

My love,

Scares me.

With her visions of the future.

Of a time when she won’t belong to me,

And I to her.

Of a time when we won’t liberate,

And be liberated.

Of a time when I won’t make her happy.

Love is clichéd.

So this doesn’t have to be that.

It can be simpler, less ponderous, less heavy.

It can be like a free white breeze,

Blowing over the Pacific blue,

A balm to love-wracked mariners

And their aching hearts.

It can be like a wild mustang,

Gloriously free,

Galloping into a golden sunset.

It can be like a flight of mystery,

Of science,

Of pushing boundaries of what is known.

Of the thrill of knowing, and of the human spirit

Ever indomitable, behind it.

It could be like a walk in golden Prague.

Amongst a crowd of people who don’t know us.

Surrounded, yet alone together.

It could be like what I make you  feel, when I look into your eyes.

It could be like what you do to me, when you pant,

Breathless on love.

It can be like something I strum, and something you sing.

It could be all that. We could be all that.

Together, we could be one.

But lightly so.