Whispers of the Blinded Heart

Love is blind?
Not so. Love makes us blind.
At times, to the object:
to glance over those little things
and find joy in what should
bring grievance.
To others:
to become incapable of seeing
just what others do
and who they are,
to forget the face,
the heart of companionship.
But worst of all,
to be made blind to the self:
That moment in which we forget
that we are becoming
all which we despise
and forgetting
not our heart
but what it means
to truly live with it.

Slow black moments

I have died many times before
and will do so many times still.
While each time it becomes no easier
slowly, I have gained a new friend,
Always there, but never otherwise,
during moments
of weakness.
Still, slowly,
I have sought
to leave it behind.
Yet still he appears,
In those black moments,
at my stoop:
A bottle in his hand
and a greeting in his throat.