The Nauseating Sweetness of a Love Potion

While you sleep, your arms have stretched across me, and my heartbeat is all you could possibly hear. Meanwhile, all I can hear is the sound of your breathing, and the highlighting shadows of this pre-dawn repose fall across your well-kissed face. I have given you the blankets, for you are mine, and your warm, naked softness is a remarkable paradox of your great waking strength and tragic vulnerability. Was it really me that made you this happy? For fear of anything waking you from this perfect rest, even my own movements, I stay awake to guard you in the night.

If I could see the future, I would say someday we will have beautiful babies; or that in a year you will hate me for everything I have done. I might foresee the happiest portions of our life together, or the bitter fights of our departure. However, all I can truly see right now is how much I love you.

I fear I have gone mad. The day has come that you call me by the name "beautiful," and the warm light in your brown eyes seems to shine of thoughts you have of me. I fear I have gone mad. I ask people if they know where I am, and if they can see you holding my hand, since I can't trust my senses. I fear I have gone mad. I can smell you, and I can taste you, but might I not simply be eating my pillow?

I fear I have gone mad, and that your voice is the phantom of insanity in my head that sings me to my doom. I fear I have gone mad, discovering in a dream your smiles and my favourite place in your arms between your breasts.

I fear I have gone mad, for the mad certainly seem happy.


by Rob Fairchild, 1996