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Loving A Feeling
How I wish you came to me in some other form then this: beautiful and resilient, the Helen of a new Troy. How I wish you found me in some different time; when I was sick on some other love, drunk on some other woman. But no, you came to me when I was broken and weak, and love was merely an abstraction. You came with your seaborne eyes, and I was immediately hurled away, taken to the shore of some isle that you had prepared for me in expectation of this encounter.
What can a man do to save himself from living and loving, if but for a moment, those things that he deems beautiful? But what more can a man do to save himself from living and loving those things he deems beautiful in all aspects of his self—in his eyes, in his mind, and in his heart. He can do little, for such a love strikes and stuns—it crawls beneath the skin and sleeps—it is not fleeting in its existence, it is not easily quieted by its nature. It is lasting and driving. Turning even powerful men into dreamy, little children.
Why have you come? To torture—to scoff—to laugh at my romantic delusions—to whisper in my ear the many things my heart craves and then vanish? Do you come before a wake of destruction, do you “eat men like air”? What have you, I carry no verdict. I ask questions only to understand.
How could you take me as so, as a deer caught in a thicket. A helpless animal carried to the altar of lust—or is it love? I cannot say, truly. Though I’ve spoken of it as being so already. Perhaps that truth lies hidden in my blood. I do not know it. Another must come and draw it out of me. Only now, you must burry the dagger deep in and wait.
I will bleed for you until I am a pale white; until you know that I hide no shame or reservation in me for what we are doing. Whatever may come, let it come. For death by this love would not be death, but transcendence.
