Oh, my summer Love…
It isn’t fair.

You are one of the most beautiful people
whom I have ever met,
yet the cruel words from your past
have convinced you that you
are still the ugly duckling.

You are not –
you have the strength of a survivor,
your beauty radiates
through and between your scars.

And while I rage against the world for those very scars,
I question what kind of woman you might have been
had the world not been so insecure
that it felt the need to attack you.

For even though you are hamstrung,
you have weathered storms –
I see it in the way you move:
ever forward, like a charging knight.

You are a modern-day Joan of Arc,
and the world wants to destroy you like it did her,
because it cannot bear to see a beauty rise
that does not owe it allegiance.

So to survive, you gave up your love for yourself.
And now, even though I tell you that you are beautiful,
even though I tell you, frequently,
“You are pretty; you are beautiful.
You are attractive, and hell, you are arousing,”
you do not believe a word of it.

Instead, you remember a laundry list of ex-boyfriends
who treated you like their backup plan.
You remember your father,
how he called you, “Thunder Thighs,”
and made you hate yourself.

And if killing them could save you, I would.
I would wade through an ocean of blood;
I would call in all the debts that you have forgiven,
but never, ever forgotten.

I would take them all to task,
and challenge them because there is no difference
between physical, verbal, and emotional violence.
And listening to you, I know
they were not kind to you.

But that will not save you.
I’m not sure what will, but
I know I want to try.
What I see in you calls to me
like a siren song through the dull-grey fog of this world.

So what I will do is this:
I will tell you that you are beautiful,
each and every moment I can,
and I will never lie to you,
so you know I’m not lying then either.

I will support you,
and throw the winds of my storm
under the wings of your dreams
so your heart can soar.

I will hold you like you are a treasure,
kiss you like you matter,
and, God-willing,
make love to you like you take my breath away.

Because you already do.

I would take the thighs which you find unlovable
and use my teeth and tongue to play a song upon them.
I would use every lesson I’ve ever learned
to coax a symphony of glory out of the body
you do not believe to be glorious.

I would be your shield and sword –
your staunchest defender,
your most charismatic rogue,
stealing back the truth
the world took from you.

I would have you be the last sight of my night
and the first view of each new day.
I would wake you with a kiss,
a cuddle,
and rise before you to get coffee.

I know you’re not a morning person.
But I am, and I would throw my strength into your corner,
and fill the gaps in your defenses.
I would be a man you can trust.

I would carve out a place in my life for you,
give you my first and my very best,
and offer you the vulnerable moment
of seeing my worst too.

I would have you be mine,
but I know that there is nothing I can do
to make that so.
Only you can make that claim.

Instead,
I can only tell you,
honestly and fervently,
that I am yours.

I am yours lady,
and as sure as the sun rises,
I would dote upon your whims,
champion your dreams,
and be the weapon of your vengeance.

I would love you for you,
serve you because I see the value you do not,
and chastise you if need be,
because I do not think you would respect a man
who merely rolled over for you.

I am yours lady,
and I wait upon the day
when I earn your favor
and the reward
that is the echo of my words.

Sing to me a song of twilight.

Sing to me of dates in the dark,
of dinner and dancing,
flirting, romancing,
and stolen kisses.

Sing to me of late-night conversations,
of empty bottles of wine
and glasses so often filled
that they themselves feel tipsy.

Sing to me of sex
of the raw, primal soundtrack
that thunders through our blood
like a sweltering summer storm.

Sing to me of greeting the sunrise
with someone held in your arms,
softly like you’re still dreaming,
fiercely like you never want to wake up

Sing to me of the dusk,
of the vanishing of the light.
Sing to me of the dawn,
and the birth of a new day.

When I was younger, I found a sun for myself.

I don’t remember exactly when or where. Perhaps it was at a local faire, or passing by on the street somewhere that I found my sun.

I’d like to think it was amber and gold, but it probably wasn’t. It could have been copper, brass, or gilded. It could have been amber, or just colored glass. But it was my sun, and my sun was amber and gold.

There was a drop of amber in the center, with six or eight teardrop-shaped ambers surrounding it, and the whole piece was set in gold. I’m not sure though. I don’t remember anymore, because I no longer have my sun.

I gave my sun to the first woman who was ever my lover – five years after we broke up.  I thought she needed strength, and I wanted to give her my best and brightest. I knew she’d have some long, hard years ahead of her, and she did. She does. But these days she seems happier, pursuing a new career path and telling me about her current relationship with such cheer that I can see the smile on her face even though we’re speaking over the telephone.

But there are those days when I need strength as well, and my world is dark in the absence of my sun. I miss its weight against my chest. I miss the strength I drew from it.

I remember the time in high school when I had an internship, and they had me clean out their basement for a month. I remember how dark it was down there, how lonesome. And how I realized that if I wanted light down there, I had to bring it with me.

So I sung, for hours every day, to bring the light with me. I stopped feeling lonesome. I let go of my fear. The light in my heart chased them away, and I shone like a beacon in the dark.

But some time after that, I lost my light. I don’t remember when or where. Now, I feel lonesome. I am afraid. My heart diminished from all the pieces I gave away to others. Most did not treat them kindly; few returned them when they were done. A few years ago I gave one of the best and brightest pieces of it to a friend who needed strength.

I hope I still have enough to get by. I hope I still have enough left to share with the people I meet who matter to me.

Because when I was younger, I found a sun. I don’t remember when or where. It was a drop of amber surrounded by six or eight teardrops set in gold. I don’t remember anymore, because it’s been years since I’ve seen my sun.

But I still remember the way it feels.