I love you.
I love you in all your forms.
I love you when you feel sad, my Unknown Lover.
I love you when you show up as sadness in me.
I love you, Unseen Lover, in the cup of coffee in the morning.
I love you, Unknowable Lover, in the eyes of a lover.
I love you in the unexpected, both "good" and "bad."
I love you in the sway of the trees, blowing in the night.
I love you hiding away in the misty moon.
I love you especially in the moments when I feel tense, anxious, fearful, uncertain. How beautiful you are then.
I love you when you show up as joy and ecsatic layback bliss.
I love you when you show up as pain and grief and hopelessness.
How I love you then.
I love you when you show up as first love, first kiss, first making love. I love you when you show up as pure lust. And I love you when you show up as tired with physical lovemaking and desire and desire something more.
I love you in your varying moods, from sunrise to sunset.
How can I praise you enough, I who don't exist except to praise you, who is myself, who is all of us?
How can I bow down to you enough, in utter surrender and humility and receptivity, knowing you are myself and everything else? How can I not?
I love your peach ice cream on a hot summer's day.
I love your losing and defeat and shame and embarrassment. How beautiful and sweet you are.
I love your thunderstorms, dramatic and expressive.
I love your quiet rains, silently dropping on the thirsty grass and vegetation.
I love your innocent rabbit, so precious and vital and fragile. And I love when the dogs, who are also you/me, also devour the rabbit.
I love your children, sons and daughters of God, learning to walk. And I love it when they fall down, knowing they will get up again.
I love your memory, which is so sharp. And I love your senility, which knows nothing anymore, the wordless true state of things.
Most of all, I love your love for yourself, which extends everywhere and can't possibly leave anything out, because it is only and all yourself afterall.
I love talking nonsense like this. I love knowing nothing about what I'm talking about, as now, but just trusting that will make sense or touch someone, somewhere, somehow, some way perhaps.
I love you, Unknown Lover, who is you masquerading as "me," as "us," as "the world," as "reality"—or whatever names we would like to give things.
I love your love and your compassion, which I see in so many places. And I love your cruelty, which I see in so many places. I love that they're actually an inseparable whole.
I love surrendering to you, who is only "me," who is only "us," who is only "everything."
I love that you make love possible. I love that you make compassion possible. I love that you make acceptance possible. I love that you make reconciliation possible.
I bow down to you, myself, us, them, all of "us."
I love your angels and devils, showing up inside of me and everyone.
Most of all I love your sea breeze, wafting lazily through the twilight of my mind, caressing me, reminding me that you, Unseen Lover, who is me myself and everything else, is making love to all of us 24/7.
I love when I get sleepy, as now. I love when I awake in the morning, refreshed, if I do. And if I don't, I love you that way.
I love you in the boring moments and the exciting moments.
I love you in "right" and "wrong." You can't fool me any longer, because I know you are both and beyond both and immediately in the rightnow as both as well.
I love it when the thoughts race out of control and I love it when each thought, if any, comes out of silence.
I love your rose and your thorn, and I can no longer choose between the two.
I love your brilliant mind and your drooling insanity.
I love your brilliant heart and your brilliant hate. There is no longer anything about you/me/us/them/all that I can not love, because I have ceased to exist except in you. Or rather, I never did exist except in you, that is to say myself/us/all beings/all existence.
Your existence is so cool, and I know that it has no separation from you at all; it is you.
I love that I'm not making any sense, that I'm sounding like a complete fool. I love that. I love you. I love you. I love you. I hopelessly love you, and I love that you present yourself to me as me each moment, making love with me in every situation.
I bow down to each grain of sand in you, each blade of grass, each atom, each galaxy, each heart, each moment of feeling and being touched by you.
I bow down to you, I can't help it, I bow down to your magnificence, which is only our own.
I bow down to my incoherence, my insufficiency to do you justice, I bow down to this exquisite mirror to myself, this infinite mirror to all of "us," as "us."
I love that you wake up to yourself, though ourselves, through these eyes, through "me" and "you."
I love that words break down and can go longer express anything. I especially love that, my dear.
—jim sloman, 8/09/02 for Sep 27
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