Distinctions

You ask me
what more you could give.
You love me.
You believe
I draw too many distinctions
between types of love.

I want the bright sweet lavender tides of lovers' shyness.
I want the exulted rose confetti of joy in your presence,
and the red twisting ribbons of desire.
I want the great hulking bastions,
the bedrock and columns of our dayscomeandgo agreements,
to overlook the ripped currents of discord
that may come when the weary winds of the shared world blow toward us.

I want a circumstance that allows
my speaking that into existence
to make sense.

It makes so little sense to argue
about love outside of its own context.
It makes even less sense
to ask for it--
It would be begging
with the forgone conclusion of denial.

What is romantic love to you?
You swim,
dear Pisces,
in an ocean of greys.

I so often feel stranded--
a wind-whipped painter,
island-deserted in your oceans.

I trip over the stark contrast,
pulling color out of myself--
a lost blend in your greys.

I want the bare white sand canvas--
even tone to be impressed upon
with co-creative imagination.
I want color, shape, and definition
to bend itself out of the brushes
that are our hands and mouths.

Don't you see the difference
between love and friendship?
I only want to know if you feel it.

You accuse me of
draining the value of our friendship--
pouring it into the unspeakable,
illusory other love.
I am wrong
for acting as if it's more love.

I dream of the warm pair-bond trust
that we already have,
set to chaotic heady rhythms
of romance.
It's a new state;
worthy of definition--
worthy of desire.

It's hard to speak this though--
to answer your question.

The process of denying it
is what cleaves me.
I now have two states,
longing for the other,
and I've found myself
looking toward you--
across the chasmic ocean
of unspeakable words,
and those that I've spoken,
but have not been enough--
and I only see you,
screaming into the sea--
“What is the difference?”

You believe
I draw too many distinctions
between types of love.