Till love tear us apart 1

I forget the reasons, but I love you once, remember?

Maybe in this season,

drunk and sentimental,

I’m willing to admit         

a part of me                  

crazed and kamikaze,

ripe for anarchy,

Loves still.     

So, here’s what I would tell you if, part of me, loves still and is set for chaos.

What I would tell you, preferably when we are both blindly drunk [To get home wasted after a party and eat cereals on the floor directly out of the box]

What I would tell you, preferably when we are both mature enough [To go to the cinema as an excuse to eat popcorn and end up half making in the dark of the very back row]

What I would tell you is that I love how you see the beauty in the world [To turn the volume of the music up and move badly on the improvised dance floor of our kitchen while making breakfast]

What I would tell you is that I want to be with you and I want to make this work [To try to fit in the bathtub because it’s supposed to be romantic and end up laying on the wet floor of the bathroom because there is more space]

What I would tell you is that I want to be with you.

Remember how it started?

            You asked me: ‘Wanna get drunk and stay the night?’

            I did. I do

            I do want to sleep separately in the same bed. No hugs. No touch. But, sometimes, move my hand toward you just to check that you are still there.

            I do want to sit on the floor with you. Drinking wine out of the bottle and not being able to leave each other for a second, not even to grab to glasses.

            I do want to be alone together. Me creating worlds in my head through reading and you drawing others.

            I do want to laugh hysterically with you. Without even telling a joke, just burst into improvised laughs.

It is ideal if I can bury my sensitive self, that which is so wounded it can’t even breathe.

Know that I’m talking about? Being strangers who end up being at home.

Surely it’s naïve, but I have the right to embrace my own fantasy and experience it in any way I can.

I can love you again, because I am self-violent, destructive and, still, I cannot detach your soul from mine.

As Emily Brontë claimed:

“You said I killed you –haunt me then! … Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Only do not leave my in this abyss, where I cannot find you! (97).

Let’s set the world on fire and, from the centre of the flames, staring at each other.