Something for a lover

In a very University-like manner: here follows more on the topic discussed in yesterday's notes, as found below. Meaning here we go again. Back to school and refinding my thus-related mood and style (e.g. in writing). Including certain, recognizable (from last year) dispositions. And, er, predilections. Such as momentary favourites - aka never-ending listmania - Song: "Sorrow" by Pink Floyd, Drink: Cappuccino Ice Coffee, Clothing: jeans and pastels, Food: pasta, Addiction: milk chocolate and wallpaper-making. Puh. So much for my mental, moral, human status in the now. Here's what I've been busy writing:

"Twice for one" - for The aRc.
[kind of a draft or maybe a fake cut]
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, remembering. Yeye, I know it's kinda obvious. But also, it needed to be said. And I'm saying it. I'm finally, really saying it now. I bet you didn't even think. Or blink. I never do, too. This is a story about love which is hard to have and hold. Written throughout the 15th of August - night/morning/afternoon.

PART I:
My love's a strange, strange creature
A recipient of bonds once broken
And of notes dispatched
My love is unpretentious recognition
Like I myself was more repaired
And all left by restored
It seems to me that I'm ineluctably drawn
Back to the fate I escape to seek again
Another time or place, is of no matter
When it'll heedlessly commence
As we betray and break and find anew

With him I've fought and loved and everything's allowed
Henceforth, and painfully forgiven
Existing on hairlines of almost, but not quite, forgotten
Subtleties that may prove odd to understand
We cannot live off modest correspondence
In quiet discontent or distant, cold submission
Our love turns weak in harmony
When based on pretences too false to be mistaken
Thus we're at peace, enough to meet in crossfire
And do not dare to step out lightly for a nod
Agreement makes not any unison for us

My love can't be predicted,
Nor for a simple fool
Too loudly he appears
My love is young in soul and spirit
But his wisdom sounds of old
And when he calls to me
It rings of his forefathers' voices
Those long forgotten words of theirs
Renewed in his, with one intent approach
As he stares honestly within
I let him there, but not lead far astray

For when he tends to me, I still remain
As whole; although partaken, never conquered
Opposing figures struggle, never part
As are we only one when we are two

PART II:
My love destroys me, in display
of true oblivion, he can't be tamed
He leaves me wanting, waiting in a cage
My love is closed instead of close
Yet no-one could come nearer
Or give more accurate replies
Frequently lacking in real response
No exchanged or extended glances
Though he's not deprived of certain senses
to find his road in obscurity's land
as he uncovers paths in my direction

For when he swerves at me, I still retain
The whole; although his exclamations are revisited
Impassioned people utilize, they never promise
I sometimes think that we're a too enabled double to be one

says anything I'd want to hear and more
he often comes along to claim he'll give me
says even though you'll never know for sure
you are the only one who come to own me

My love is eager, at times when he'll tell me
yet sometimes he merely evades
My love yields to the momentary lusts
the forcing nature seizes him
he drowns and pulls me under
My love is the shape of a half-beast
his every move becoming part
of what he's made my curse
Attachment to the power of his ardour
Him, a beacon beatiful as is congeniality
assuring that, in any case, the love I feel is mine