Buenos Dias!

Dear Bloggie,

The bi-polar merry-go-round is proving fun lately. I'm on the up. Actually, the drop is something of an anticipation from up here, that's how up I am: so up that I even think falling will be a rush of fun.

Starbucks is evil. My tomatoes are gross. So watered down. I'm in love. Oh, never mind that last bit. Neverything we own. Even love. Oh, yes, and I wrote a poem about it! (Cause all emos write poetry)

Here goes:

The pain is gone

like this = bliss

do you stir?

are you honest

when you touch me?

I'm diving feeling freeing

up space

leaping bounding jumping

to where you can

see me more clearly

allowing the lights to

shimmer on long-withdrawn

rooms (kept them all

in darkness till your eyes

did light them)

I have no reservations,

but should I fain some?

: solitude or solidarity?

with you

It's no sollution.

You articulate the

void, under the pins

of that philosophy

I hear "love is

a distraction."

What? Must I battle

with critical theory

over your heart?

If love itself is the light

and the darkness

pulled from aching

empty spaces

and the slice of bread

formed when knives are

pressed down into

whole loaves.

There are two kinds

of love then: real

and fake,

cliche, yes, but

one purges over

cups full of waste

and flows into

clean rooms and

health, while the

other is born

of the origin

and leaps like fish

from the surfaces,

air born in the sharp,

cool, suffocating void

in pulsating little

instances, splashing

back beneath the

veneer of mortality

between these magnificent

flights.

We are the fish, and

I know this because

we so often swim through

the darkness undaunted.

I find you feeling

out of the water.