3/6/14

I want to write you a love song
but the wind outside is making me cold, chilling my bones
a winter; permafrost 
but underneath the ground is alive.
I want to grow you a garden of pine, a shelter
of shade and sweet-smelling sap; 
a calming cup of tea, 
writing poetry while in a coma of caffeine.

Yet, I tend to forget you are in the song, 
in the clickety-clack of typewriter keys, 
that you remain in the memories in the memory of me.

For you, you are an everything. Not just a something,
but a something and so much more. 
The first laugh after heartbreak,
a cracked door. 
The stone to sharpen my dull sword. 

Maybe a lover, but for the first time a friend. 
Though there are miles of mascara stains
and doubts as dark as blotted ink, 
after the moon has circled the sky, each phase more illusive than one before
we shall see a harvest. 
the strength to keep swimming until our lungs are
filled full and 
we sink.

Whether lose ourselves to be found or, forbid, we be condemned for our sin, 
maybe if not now, we'll still begin again. 
The angels still sing love songs of alleluia 
praise God, praise God, 
Amen.