The Mother Loom

Every time I try to write about you, it tumble-crumples down and out as one big cliche’.   These heavy hackneyed words that someone else has mouthed and slurred– and I hate it.  Because to me this is the most uncommon-and-uncouth uncut-diamond-in-the-rough Prometheus discovers fire for only the third time in his life.  And I hate the way everything I say feels like something someone else already said…

But then,
I think:

Maybe this is my inclusion into the great union of poets, all those pining’ rhyming fools striving to twist the written word to confess their undying love.   Each leaping from the shoulders of their predecessors, screaming “what I feel in my breast is original and unique!” but all unknowingly-sewing from the same machine, spouting one single woven fabric from the Mother Loom that ultimately all these iterations spill forth… some indelible swelling well-spring beneath humanity that is coursing and bubbling and brimming to the top with those same fathomless words whispered by so many, reverberating and echoing against the halls of mankind until they resonate in one voice, in one singular symphony, the words– I love you.

Because I do.

Neither first, nor last but somewhere smack dab in the great sea of humanity, are these blinking twinkling moments– of Me and You.

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Shelf Life

So many of my stories begin with a ticking clock.  A temporary fling, swiftly burning to the ground, and I try to see how long I can keep the coursing kerosene running in our pumping veins.

But with you, with you there is no shelf-life.  There is no clumsy, fumbling for the ripcord to escape-eject.  And this slow and steady upward traject’ory has me scared.  Because I never want to see you in hindsight.  I never want to write the epitaph to this story.  You don’t get some clever nickname and a few strung together paragraphs of how I made it all blow to hell.  No, I want you until I’m old and gray and they drop me into a deep hole and shovel the earth in after me.  Because now that I’ve found you I don’t plan on spending another day on this Earth without you.

And the tools of my trade, the adventures and the games…  One by one they fell down into the dirt along the wayside of where I was.  Discarded willingly, like baby teeth falling from my mouth with something more permanent sprouting up just below the gum line.  And I haven’t felt this way in a long time.  And you’re more frightening than any blazing flame to light my face… because with you… I never want to put you out.  With a hasty breath or a clumsy miss step.  And I am not proud of where I’ve been but if it took all that wander’ing to bring me here then the journey was worth it.  All I can hope now is that I deserve this.

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