if his love danced in romantic tones and heartfelt song he has no language no words to describe beyond survival and necessity the love he holds in his worn and worried heart - I've had to sense it uncover it It had to be felt. I found meaning outside of the literal interpretations of abrupt speech and long silences. There were no words used wastefully, in spurts of emotional wind he uses no breath excessively. Perhaps romance is for those who have time. He speaks of his first and last love as if she was born of his heart Inseparable intolerable one and the same it is confluence without codependence. I had to learn love in actions in crinkled smiles in lasting impacts of fleeting, fragile emotion. Love existed because they made it so in ways permanent and necessary as the food and drink they offered freely. In his recliner next to her bed they sleep and will sleep because rest escapes him when she is not there.
Tag: short poem
on regrets
I didn’t believe them when they said I’d regret; I’d build and we'll grow into twisted and tiny fragments of what came before. When I sit in pause they come to me in bursts and breezes I can regret and accept all in one breath.
or so they say
Isn't it often
told that love
finds us when we
are least expecting it
Like a crash landing
both expected and
surprising
they'll
stretch and look around
in both relief
and gratitude
Left with lingering
anxiety
intertwined with
excitement
I think of this narrative
with a half smile,
a small chuckle.
You see,
I know better than
to allow
or embrace
this serendipitous
storyline
Baby,
I carefully
and backbreakingly
built this ground
for years.
Horizon
Should I leave us
on that shore
with the imperfect shells
under our hardened feet
your hope matching
the aquamarine of
the gentle waves
mine hollow,
hidden
like the sun below
the separation
of sky and sea
(we jumped to
see its final rays
below)
In letting you go
I fear losing
healthy and
consistent
experiences
of love, perceived
(this loss feels paralyzing)
but if we
keep
on that
shore
jumping to see the
sun's descent
If I hold us
in that water
with the steady waves
and unfiltered sun
Perhaps it won't
be a loss at all.
Maybe its
always been
a gain
I'm not there, yet
the finality of
the goodbye
I still hold on
to memories like
they're fallible
like they are
at risk of
slipping away
if I don't focus
hard enough
But soon I know
it's coming;
the sun is setting
behind its
horizon line
and this time
I won't jump
to watch it
fall.
Garage
One night after
a day of
let downs and
all the rest
I parked my car
in its spot;
let the engine run.
I couldn’t
step out
or turn the
engine off.
You came running
down the stairs
to my door.
You reached in,
turned off the car,
guided me out.
I thought maybe
that could be
enough
Fleeting
yet powerful
moments of love.
Temporary
I so badly wanted it
to be you.
It was temporary.
We were, that is.
That made it
no less real.
I sure did
like to pretend,
though.
I held on
just in case
i was proven
wrong.
quiet
I like him best while he plays his strings kisses my neck existing quietly, together Is that fair when so much of his energy is loud and bold sometimes I think the quiet of the last two years changed me even when I resented it.
enough
I am always somewhere else not in one place on to the next back there and even further on. Tell me, when will the waxing crescent above the setting sun be enough
smothered
Up until that point I had seen no clearer skies or stars as abundant I remember you in images of the fire on the shore sounds of the dark waves, the blanket on the sand- I read my book instead of looking at you under those stars. And tonight across the blackest of clouds a lighting storm a cascade of lines and energy of matter and change You were both there and not there Just the same as under the Milky Way at the shores of the Great Lakes on the edge of the fire that we smothered with sand and water.
Hands
I left you in July, started again in August. I’ll spend September wondering how you are. You sat there holding my hands, “I don’t want to let you go,” You implored, as if you could not see that I no longer knew the hands in my own. I knew you no more or no less than I had the July before or the one before that. “I miss that special bond,” He said to me, a week after. What bond is silent, I wanted to ask. What bond exists only in two laptop screens and a tv monitor a late night cuddle, a quick- paced walk. Perhaps you did know me more than I knew you. Maybe I let you know me. The me that left and rose from your bedroom floor knows not of how or why two years from the day I asked for promises changed everything I thought I wanted.
The Restless Crescent 