My Heart Belongs To You

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I am a lover.

I remember… my color was black, the material was leather, the seduction was beauty, my justification was honesty, and the aim was ecstasy…

I came to seduce you into a love of life; to help you become a little more poetic; to help you die to the mundane and the ordinary so that the extraordinary would explode in your life.

I was then silently drawn by the pull of who I loved, which engulfed me with spellbinding grace and haunted in weirdness. It forced me to dream. After becoming a dreamer I could only find my way by moonlight and my punishment was that I saw the dawn before the rest of the world.

I am no poet. I write memories I seize nothing inside. There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do, and poetry, my friend, is an odd jealousy—the poet never finds himself near enough to his object.

My life seems like a patchwork - here and there. Scraps of pleasure and despair joined together, hit or miss.

I want to remain a lover—eternally. Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded. Someone sober will worry about events going badly. Let the lover be.

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