Between Now and Then

When I love, I love passionately, deeply, and fully. I love the hands, the legs, the lips, the mind, the voice, the words, even hand writings of the man I love. I love to hold the palm of my lover and feel it next to my face. I love to caress his lips with mine without the need to touch. That is how I love. I love to love without a reason, without giving an inch of doubt, trading life long promises, or starving for attention from my lover. I love an undisturbed imagination where I can write to him without sorrow or pooling tears in his eyes, my eyes, or propelling an arrow through the heart.

Love is joy, joy of letting the spirit rise, and the body to sing, like a little slip of a poem where I can shrug off what comes written between now and then. That is the texture of my memory. The two empty glasses on the table, walking on a paved brick street, cross off the sounds, and an inviting "I love you" note without contemplation, the reflection of a glance, and the agreed upon time to silently go beyond compare. I love because I can. I love because there is no pressure, no demand, and no reason not to love, because nonbeing is not a scattered despair.