Don’t give me tame love.
Tame love is for confined animals locked within cages of them selves in the zoo of their souls.
As for me and my love?
We're wild tigers that run alongside the Ganges and pick up Durga along the way stopping wars by stupid unlovers and keeping you all from their danger.
We’re the wild horses who dance with the tides at the outer banks and lap the water of salt and make love to the mer-creatures and braid seaweed into our manes and hee-haw and buck at any man who tries to tame us.
We aren't the wolves that pace back and forth, back and forth, between the lines of fences while people watch and snap photos of the containment and angst.
My love is a wild wolf, the kind that howls passion under a saturated moon somewhere in the middle of Idaho where no tame fool goes past midnight and the sky drips honey down on our matted black fur. We search for the blood of life, a chalice we know to be hidden in a cave, under a mountain, between the constellations of Scorpio and Sagittarius.
My love rolls on the ground when the Sky feels too high to reach. We dig our nails in the dirt of each others skin and pull out the dead roots from the middle of our muscles, look for the tap, the beginning, the end, the place where we can suck the nectar of crazy from each other because my love and I?
We like the crazy.
crazy isn’t tame
crazy is crazy
and nothing feels quite
your love is a the crazy kind
the mad kind
The kind that books are written about shot up with whiskey and clouds of smoke, the kind that is layered with paint on canvas from bi-polar brilliance in front of windows in the desert’s ancient salt air.
My love is the fertile kind that gets impregnated as soon as it bends over to pick a flower of the rarest specimen. My love is the kind that never says any thing you’d expect it to say and always surprises you so you think that every day you might be loving something new.
I don’t believe in gentle love. Gentle love is boring. Predictable.
It pays bills and wears khaki pants and button downs in neutral tones and hides balding generosity and muffin tops of greed, it hides it’s own insanity... and it hides, it just plain hides. And it thinks roasted chicken is always on Sunday night and it get’s confused when you make it creamy polenta with poblano chiles instead.
Gentle love doesn’t know how to throw me against a wall and remind me I am tough and fragile and perfect and beautiful and wet and wanted and it doesn’t know how to teach me that my body is my temple, a space, a prayer incarnate. That I’m flesh to press hard against. That I am a place do things our mothers never thought in a million years we would do.
But wild love does them.
all of them.
with a smile
because fire isn’t gentle
nope not in the least bit
so let me tell you
I’m not interested in a love that’s like a lamb or a kitten or a soft fluffy cloud.
I want a love like the mother fucking Elements.
Like the storms across the plains and the hurricanes in places where mangos grow. I want a love that quakes like the San Andreas and burns like the forests of Montana and wash walls of water against villages in the south pacific.
My love is harder than gentle
a mystery that soothes me to sleep.
With wild love there are no deadlines, and rent is only an afterthought to what comes first, which is our love. We travel the world on thoughts manifested and fulfill dreams with incantations + candles lit, thousands of them in a small room with expansive views and velvet throws and babies, always babies by our side. Our love has no degrees or certificates or papers of ownership.
And us? we never eat the same thing twice
Never. Fuck chicken on Sundays.
I don’t want a love that isn’t wild.
If dishes aren’t thrown around once in a while and a door doesn’t crack in half and wheels don’t peel out of the drive and there isn’t nail marks deep in the lower curve of my back and a 5 page love letter slathered in vanilla and a statue carved from stone of the hills and valleys of my backside, and leather, lots of leather and trees, so many trees, and wooden boats and fruits over ripe cheese... if there isn’t endless amounts of honey dipped full-fat cheese, then send that love away. It's not for me.
Love fights like a good fight
Because we fight for love
We fight for the right to love
We fight to keep love strong
We fight to bring love home
We fight to heal love
We make love wild
Because love is wild
Isn’t anything but wild
It’s the wildest thing in the world.
The love for me breaks my bones before it gnaws at the flesh that encircles it. It sucks me clean down the white marrow of my skeleton and then tosses me in the water where I can get fully tumbled out to sea and the only thing that’s left of me on the beach is my essence.
To all that I am
All that anything really is
Because that is what my love
What I am
After I am nothing.
And I can’t get there without my love, without my fully wild, totally wrong but never more right of a love.
And from this place, this is where we live.
The ether, the essence of our nothing, to know we are nothing; nothing without this love that singes our toes and saturates our hair. Nothing without the love that keeps us up at night and wakes us in the morning with confusion and the scent of heaven. That we are nothing, totally nothing without it. It’s what our story is meant to be and it’s ending is whatever it is, but surely it’s that of rock star royalty and saint-like preservation, it’s the kind that get’s burned on the cross and laughs as it resurrects itself to rock opera. It’s nothing but the most inappropriately obsessed form, a form that breaks our hearts until our hearts are totally huge and whole. Totally full of the entire cosmos, everything under the sun and we can spend our lives fucking and refuting and breaking up and starting over with a make up kiss that scatters stars.
This, this is the only kind of love that I ever want, the only kind I’ll ever kiss.
Any others just get crossed off the list.
Only wild love for me.