Thursday, August 06, 2015

Fireflies

You may think that I have lost
touch with what it means to say
I love you
to you.

You may think it has become a reach
a plea
a desperate splaying of a
cavernous
and wounded
heart
to manipulate you into
wrapping me with
soothing arms.

You may think that it has
become an empty attempt
at chasing
fireflies of experience
past
to
hold them in a ball jar
and watch their glow
encapsulated.

You may think that it
carries not the fresh spring of
now, but
the tinny
metallic taste of water
held still too long.

You may think that it does not
run in field anew,
but lies in a huddled heap of sorrow,
anguished at moments past.

You may think that I have lost
touch with what it means to say
I love you
to you.

And even if all of those things are true.
There is more.

For the words I love you sing a
symphony of every longing
every joy
every hope
and dream
and laugh
and depth
and peace

that has been born, or has suffered between us.

It plays
a melody grounded in
roots, holding
all
of
those
things

from zygote to death thrall and
onto wings anew.

Beyond and because of
us.

A heart born a lifetime ago, reborn through devotion's pain.
Earning its patina and rooted
nonetheless,
takes flight.

I know
because





I love you.