Costly

In retrospect,
I never kept my love to myself.
Unthinkingly I would touch their hair,
make them laugh,
sing them songs,
insist they looked too pretty to pass up a picture.
I loved them so much I shouted it over the horizon.
Why wouldn’t I?
It cost me nothing.
The expense of it
was all theirs –
they bore my off-key music with their pitch-perfect ears,
they chuckled at my chuckles over attempted humour,
they bowed their heads so I could twist
their hair into horrible braids.
They cut open their chests to make room for me,
the sentient abyss of the sea,
the salty, swirling tide,
kissing a thousand shores, receding
into the endless night.

A Girl Called Desire

Desire is suicidal. Always reaching for the immeasurable heights,
the sharp knives, the cyanide.
I stop her before she goes too far;
she openly resents me.
She has the faith that I lack,
for God, karma, or rebirth, I don’t know;
it’s phony, something science debunked long ago.
Naivety is her personality, wanting freedom before life.
She’s an adrenaline junkie.
She endangers me.
The only problem is, I’m in love with her.
I’ll go anywhere she takes me,
but not-so-secretly,
I want her to be satisfied.
Satiated, fatigued, appeased, pleased.
Asleep
in my arms, tucked under my chin,
dreamlessly drifting.
I wish we could grow old like this.