There were times that I thought I would have to leave you both, unzip and step out of myself, go back to Florida, start over. What a silly incoherent thing I was. Not just in my journal, but in my head as well. If I had heard the word polyamoury at the time I would have drawn nasty parallels to polygamy. I would have denied the fetish of emotion.
My mind since has stretched, again and again.
I broke your heart many times. I think each ruin tested the same vein. I love her. I talk to her with the voice you want to hear. I make her coffee in the morning. She brushes my hair anytime she wants, and I let her watch when I brush myself. We are a we. Right from the beginning, solidly prepared for the weather, rooted in wet ground, bent from swaying, like a tree.
My love for my wife to be is not a rejection, nor is it a restriction. It makes me stronger, it fills me, it frees me to give. My love for you is not an infidelity or a lesser feat. Nothing in this immensely powerful, fucked up world will ever break my heart bonds. You and I have tried. Her and I have tried. Love in its many forms will not let go.
The best kind of life rests in the patina of our communal decay.
I am not here to knock stones together forcing rain. That only makes us bleed. The gorge of day to day details, inevitable judgments, wounds, triggers, frustration; all of that has lead to craved explosion, burnout and the press of the knife point further within. I'm hoping we can spare ourselves by focusing on what we want.
I want exquisite rawness. The poetry that draws a map most mysterious. I want you to accept my love however and whenever you feel most comfortable. I want my lover back with mutual commitment and a defined set of expectations. I want as many other voices with me in the dark as I can earn. I want to dance into the floor, muddy and thick with our words. I want rules and sweet punishment. To be the color in your cheeks.
For all that I want, I am eager to give. Tell me how to be your good girl.