This, too, is for love.

You are going to forget everything by morning.  Like all the things I know for sure, this moment is ephemeral, fragile like onion paper tucked away in tombs for the sake of love.  This, too, is for love.

Someone once wrote a song about me and I wonder, I wonder, was he blind to the cockroaches I wrote notes to?  Did he know me at all?  It is so many years out from the basement of lust that I did not share, that I visited with gifts of rice and friendship.  Like an agnostic in a Mormon church, a stranger, with scaled skin, the devil, bringing fruitcake wrapped in lime leaves to the alter of god.

Here we can sit silently with no words, filling the space like an unintentional flood.  Memory, as elastic as blood, colors us with its own version of the truth.  Into the fire as deep as the trenches we dug to bury our youth.

Now I sink into anonymous crowds, all electricity adulterated, mutated, into this one conduit.  Oh god, to deliver myself of this charge!  Half sentences, half sentiments, half dreams, and I am shorting before the train passes in the night, crossing lights and roads, to find the light persevering. 

I know we speak the same language.  I know you would reach out if you could, if you knew, if I would let you.  I know that the light has left only you and I standing. 

This concrete is my love.  This surface as hard as agate and fully as gold, is my love. 

I could scream it a thousand years and it would never tire.  I could tell you a hundred times that I see right through your spirit and you'd still think me mad.  Like lace, like god damned crochet lace, your spirit shines out in patterns of grace.

In the end I will still see.  There is no blind for me.  I will give you love whether you deserve it or not.  Spread it through your sleep and you will wake up and you will not remember, you will only feel love.

Take it and ask no questions.