Love In Two Parts
(by Shimmy Boyle)
If you were to close your eyes
and visualize nothingness,
and could stop for a split second
any thoughts or feelings from interrupting,
some might even say enlightenment
if they were hippie buddhists.
Now if you were to add yourself
in all of your intricate, wonderful, beautifully, quirky complexities,
that could be self-realization.
Now if you were to add 500 gallons of red paint
on a papier-mâché heart the size of Canada,
surround it by all the laughter you've ever heard
mixed with the way you feel
when you see an adorable puppy dog
(and you know you do that voice
where you get really high
and you talk like this
as though somehow that makes them more able to understand you)
or the look on your face
the first time you saw the ocean
multiplied by the breathtaking beauty of the most majestic waterfall
and the freedom birds must feel
when they step off a branch
and instead of falling
or perhaps a gazelle
running through some really tall grass
being like "hell yeah, motherfucker"
that kind of freedom
or the freedom you feel
when your soul expresses itself bodily
in the form of the way you danced that one time
to that one song
when you let go completely
and found ecstasy without drugs or sex
a complete mind, body, and soul or-ga-sm
that kind of freedom
now if you were to take all of that
douse it in gasoline
light it with the fire of my passion
and somehow transform it all into an emotion
you have about three percent of what I feel my heart do
when I see you smile.
Falling in love is like willingly throwing yourself on a grenade.
Except the grenade looks like an adorable puppy dog.
So you dive on the ground and roll around with it.
It even has a tag around its neck that says "This is not a grenade."
Well, yeah, it is a grenade.
It says that because love is confusing.
It's like love will mess with your mind.
It says it's not a grenade, but it really is.
It says this is not a grenade, but really it is.
But it's a puppy dog.
So you dive on the ground and roll around with it, right,
because you're not sure what the hell it is.
You dive on the ground and roll around with it.
And then you think to yourself "Huh, it probably won't explode
because how could something so innocent-seeming be dangerous?"
And then BAM! You're shocked when it explodes and shatters your ribcage
and damages all of your vital organs.
And if you really fell hard, then when you're standing there,
holding your intestines, with shrapnel in your chest,
and the doctor's pumping you full of morphine
and telling you how long you have,
you're nodding and saying "Yeah, I know doc, but it was worth it!"
Yeah, love is awesome. I mean, it has to be, right,
otherwise why would we put ourselves out there?
It's not as if we don't know all the risks.
Half of all the movies, books, and songs ever made
were motivated by heartbreak.
Just go rent that crappy 80's movie "Say Anything"
with John Cusack where he stands outside her window with a boombox,
playing "Your Eyes" and he totally gets shot down!
And if John Cusack can get shot down,
is there really hope for the rest of us?
I mean, he's a major Hollywood actor.
Okay, bad example, I take it back.
Fuck John Cusack, there is hope.
Because even if someone went demolition derby on your heart,
even if they ripped it out with a rusty clothes hanger
and put it on a stake in the town square for all the villagers to see,
it's true, it was probably worth it.
And you would do it all again.
Because you have to take that risk. You have to see.
Because if you would take it back, it wasn't love.