IT IS TRUE

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love your happiness, your sorrow, your plight. I love your children, your wife, your life. I love every shade of you, every immortal blade of you: The sharp ones I cannot see; the green ones that stave off sleep with wild, tameless dreams; the vibrating ones that make music where there would be grief. I love you. I love you. I love you. You are me, because of, not in spite of, the pain you’ve caused me. I love you. I love you. I love you: This dream you are, in me, that kicks my belly from the inside; that widens my eyes with discovery; that makes me see in proportion to the degree I bleed. I love you. I love you. I love you. You cut me with the memory of you which will not leave but takes me dancing through the midnight leaves and teaches me the circle of fifths like a secret worship I must not know but cannot help but believe. And so I betray everything that stands in its way, even my own standing, my knees, the weight of me that grants me substance and you: leave to go, slipping back into the trees that lend you their conceit, cloaked in the darkest explosion of silence; a gunshot of absolution, the way a deer disappears yet hovers in the startled air full of breathing. I release you to your life, to mystery. But oh how my palms ache with the letting go; the rough pounding and thrust of your ascent; the feathered rising; the unseen reality which does not take me from you but ties my heart with living chords to your departure in perfect tribute, completed by the realized harp. You are mine tonight. If only by the tip of my pen, your vanquished absence and the unending endurance of a heart that is true and knows what it is to love you, love you, love.

 

Lauramarie is a writer who writes. She does other things too. Like breathe and beg the big shouldered Pacific ocean to take her dolphin-like on rides to the edge of what she knows; climb trees; pretend to be five; make things up; cry; try to be big brave and adult. But mostly: She writes. She writes the fire into the rain; She writes the daylight out of the day. And when she sleeps and the dreams deny her: She writes their life out onto her sheets, her pillows, her walls: whatever will take her scrawls and her testament to being alive. It is her neolithic "I was here" imprinted on the dark. And she is happy to have found a community of writers who are just as in love with the art.