not for want of love

whatever it is i'm suffering in, it's not for want of love.

whatever it is the universe is buffering on, churning and struggling about nothing, on and on and on, it's not for want of love.

a lack of understanding. a lack of time. a lack of ease and intrepidation in communication. a lack of these tricky human elements. but the foundation, the reason for the imprinted sensation of insuffience to begin with, is stones freely poured from hearts and minds, into molds the shape of sapio-sentient guise.

it feels like a disease, at times, i'll admit. it feels like i'm sick with wonder about the world. it feels like i can never be satisfied.

but it's not for want of love. rather, some sordid suffocation; there's so much of it.

i am protected, even when i don't know it. i am missed, even when i can't see it. i am needed, even though i will never believe it.

love mutes the fires of danger all around us. love heightens bounds.

i'll go about myself in my own peculiar ways, persisting to persevere through ever-trying days. i'll make what i can of what, and who, is set before me. very often, i'll love.

it's not the want of smiles. it's the fear that those smiles will fade, folly, disappear. that they will cease to be charmed into existence.

more a lack of facility, of faculty. more an existence below the threads of fate weaving a cover above my head. who could understand this? this, this marvelous thing.

there's so much of it. i want to master. but i cannot. i should not. no one should, in independence let alone isolation.

it has to be unspoken. it can't survive, transmitted too earnestly in human tongues. it must subsist in myrious and variad ways.

human impatience is weakened by impulse, by the need to possess and purify. but it does not sit and squander in want of love.

i am saved ever more frequently then i am damned. i'm still here, speaking about it, after all.

and i am not alive for want of love.