“Where Is This Love? I Can’t See It, I Can’t Touch It. I Can’t Feel It. I Can Hear It. I Can Hear Some Words, But I Can’t Do Anything With Your Easy Words.”

One of my favorite movies of all time: “Closer,” Alice says this.

She asks about why come she can’t see the love? Touch it, feel it. Then she repeats that she can hear it—but that hearing it is easy. Those words are easy.

Tell me some hard words, if any words.

Make me speechless. Heart swerving, then plunging.  The hurdle, twitch.

I want to do the splits on it. Somersault into a soaring enormous and ask him what took him so long?

I want to see it, feel it, touch it. I don’t want to hear it or hear about it anymore.
I want it sinking in my pores, I want to breathe it, be it.

I don’t want it to be easy, I want it to be uphill so I know what sleeping in is like.
I want it to hit me like an implosion. Locking my legs around it. Like plumdrops.

I want it to be so awfully good it goes stale if not immediate. Mean and fighting like rocket ship tears.

Hurry.

I don’t want  fear. I want to speak it into resistance, make it persistent and lengthy.

I want it to stay like a pose, pastel roses on my pillow. I want to be warm.
To write it into me until my joints are sore. sworn. sure.

Until the hugs take longer seconds, until stares are in sync with a later perpetuum.
Until I bloom and he shivers. When I wanderlust, he’s with me.

Until I can do nothing but call off my streetlights, blink, kiss.

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