There are moments I cannot touch…out of fear from being.
Dark, gloved hands, reaching out in leather and lace, pulling me from the sanguine times.
Floors that drop without provocation.
Shifting forest that call loud and severe.
And, yet I find, there is no voice.
Puppets and clowns amassed in bad intent.
This are the times that love and loss have lent.
I miss you when there is nothing more to miss.
I fall in love with you, each illness, each sorrow, again and again.
In the seconds that backtrack from past to present and present to future.
You are what love to be.
You are my friend.
You were someone’s-someone, once.
Such as, those many wanting more than just enough. A young wife given to the vow of love. Had you not been tangled up in someone else’s blues? Would I have known you, the way in which I have imagined you?
Love does not entitle us.
Love does not offer a direct route…
blissfully,shifting… frequently in the sway of the soul.
The road to our terms of endearment…often not the same.
She thinks my words are obscene and, peppered with perfection.
She is in awe of how I prepare for accidents and incidents…I cannot control.
The records she keeps are of all the mistakes…I have yet to own.
In and out of our blind-spots…
I may believe love too often tragic.
She frequently believes any love is mystical and some sort of magic.