Love Poem

Love is something I thought it never was, and was something I never thought it could be. It still is.. You see, I was once in love, thought I was in love, wrote about how I was in love, and talked about how in love I really was. And truthfully, I was. She had gilden blonde hair that dropped every time she took a pin out of it, and every time I took a pen out of my cup, I couldn't write anything else besides what she represented to me: not flowers, chocolate, and other colorful candy, but just that -colorful as she can be. And I'm sure she still is, as colorful as any woman can be. Our love wasn't the type of love that drove birds of a feather from the lips our friends mouths, or flocked together any stereotype like the princess and the frog, and no we never called each other dogs, but sure as hell ran when we sensed open spaces... with our tongue out mind you. Scratch that, I think I was the dog, the one chewing on our furniture, tearing pages out of memory books and knickknacks, always having her pet my head and scratch my back until my tail wagged forth and back. Or was it "back and forth"? I never really paid attention, and detention? That was what I felt when everything ended, you see, I was an eagle for a moment. When I thought that I could fly up to the tallest rock, stare down at the world below and nestle myself an impression. When in reality I was just guessing. And I'm still guessing; that it all will work out in the end, that I'll find love and satiate my hopes and desires, extinguish my only burning fire, an open flame that challenges every contestant. So keep lining them. I won't even begin to show interest until one like my mother takes the stage, scolds me for not cleaning my room, when only a few days later puts everything I own away. She will be Italian, talk with her hands, say things to make me question the multiple connections language makes and every possible direction I'm left covering up mistakes. She'll have an adage about the way she routinely dresses: red and purple stripes, blue jeans, rings, earrings, and an occasional necklace, white shoes that one can only run in, and hair that falls down to her tail end. But she will care about me like nobody could ever know. She will care for the world as she does for organs in her own body. She will drop everything like a surprise party surprise just in order to help with maths. My language arts was fine, my father taught me how to read way back... when I was four and only looked at pictures: a white boy with yellow hair and an imaginary tiger. My Mother would never be too busy to laugh at what I thought was funny. And she immediately taught me the importance of money. And family. Which is why when I say "Love Poem," and you laugh, it pains me. It pains me to know that what you imagine as love, is not what I imagine love to be. It's not diamonds in the sand, digging your feet into the covers and cuddling at night, playing needle in a haystack without the lights. It's about trust and growing up... knowing when to unconditionally be interested, and learning to forget the definition of "give up." My Mother, I never wrote for you because I never wrote about myself in a loving manner. All I am is because of you, and in the end, that's all what's inside a Love Poem that truly matters.