I don’t want a dehydrated love
that lives somewhere between
purgatory and just good enough.
I’d rather bust my knee on the sidewalk,
bruise my arm and cheek on the wall,
crash my bike on a rocky path, crack my
wrist for a love full of oxygen caught fire.
Turning blue to red. Scarlett Crimson.
I don’t want to be rescued from the flames.
I want to be wrapped in them
Let’s lose the word complacent,
and replace it with passion.
Trust that a love full of imperfections
is more interesting than one
full of perfect nothingness.
Let’s get pleasantly disoriented
on a bed of salacious.
Where everything we need
is a finger trail away.
Let’s follow the glint of rosebuds
and not be afraid to step on the
Let’s create a love of different rooms
we can waltz into.
Now a lover.
Now a friend.
Now a sexy stranger.
Nothing predictable, no room
I want a love full of poetry,
but nothing conventional
I want crude statements.
A lexicon of love and sex.
A love that’s not offended by
the Fword -foreplay
and likes to fucking fuck.
No! I don’t want a dehydrated love
I want a love that is fully
I don’t mind drudgery but lace it
with swoon, with heat.
I believe in the power of endurance and faith,
but let’s pepper it with decadence and sin.
I don’t want us to look back
and realize how sane we were
for each other.
I want to reflect back on
a crazy love that took us and
the moon down.
One that resides somewhere
between soulful conversation and
a wet dream.