Box of Vows

I discovered my vows in the bottom of a box

Scribbled, smooth as silk….yellow, red, purple…

the words,

of love and such.

With tannery hands,

I brushed away the

cobwebs.

I gently blew away the dust.

Endearment’s endeavors had been so young…way back when.

Impasse coupled with miracles…a constant friend.

Years of having worn my heart on my sleeve…lavished me in self proclaimed, misery.

It is only now, by virtue of, love’s vows…

I see the greatest gift of all.

‘You have taught me to take life less seriously.’

Young Love

Even if my air were shattered…a since of completeness puts me at ease.

To travel this journey of tightropes…and, understand I do not venture alone.

Had I not taken a walk…

barren footpaths with little pride.

Had I not fallen from side to side.

Would I have recognized what it means to…

‘grow old together.’

All the senses aroused by parallel courage.

The malice of well-traveled storms.

The bite of absorbent winds.

Ridges of our life together.

An hour-glass of sunny sides to the streets.

Dark and doubtful mornings.

An hour’s glass of every conceivable element strewn in our path.

How slight the moments…

How slight every forever…

How deliberate the time…as we, grow old together.

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Fine Lines We Share

The fine lines we share…

Go everywhere, and no where, at once.

I ask her,

‘Will you love me, as I grow old?’

This is a questioning fable I have often told.

And, yet, the insecurities have grown less bold.

 

The fine lines have grown more pronounced…

Around our hands.

Our eyes.

Everywhere, youth can depart.

Other than, the smooth curves around our hearts.imageedit_6_3840277012

 

Love Handles

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I had been willing to remain under a fallen pine tree.

And, of a matter of course, that is where you found me.

Far away from life with my heart left out in the cold.

Kind, as always, you placed it in flip-flops and flannel.

Placed it in a black and white shanty…

and,

Furnished it with love handles.