My Cardboard Balcony

Yes, This Is Madness by Belinda Roddie Yes, this is madness: Rich and brimming from the cup of life, encrusted with bright gems all pulled from rings, the bands left on each thumb and forefinger of kings whose fickle dreams keep them still longing for treasures of old. I wrinkle up each letter to my wife, and though I know her heart is built from gold, it grows too heavy to carry in life, and so I shall discard it soon enough. Do not think me a failure in marriage, but instead a scarecrow that has been stuffed with mud and salt that's far too thick to dredge. I waver in the field of my own mind, forgetting all the loves I left behind.

People try to tell you it's a lifestyle you've chosen. It's an option that you've taken as if the other one was inferior. They say that all your kisses are forced by some sort of hidden agenda that you've never seen published, or in a book on your nightstand. Best you can do is ignore them. That's what I do, anyway. What do they know about the way we love? It's as natural as breathing; we can't shut our lungs off.