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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