I mean to write to heal,
letting time pass in the
stringing together of thoughts as words
reasonably emotional,
poignant,
honest--
I mean to write to heal,
but surely I am not mending my heart
but burrowing into the contours
of its wounds.
Each description of each memory
like shards of glass,
fragments of us
that make no more sense on paper
than they do in the vessel
from which I pull them.
Transparent.
Raw.
It's all there for me to feel,
and until I have I cannot heal.
Until I have sat in those depths
and listened to the pulsating
rhythm of my repressed hurt,
angsty,
unfulfilled.
God each word would satisfy so
much more sweetly
if directly to your ears,
if they were to coax out your response--
tangible,
revealing.
I'll call out again that I love you.
I'll write again of tangled bodies,
unsealed lips
and the most gentle fingertips.
Of fears.
Of truths.
I'll detail the wisdom
my heart has acquired in
being willing to lose your love
again and again
and write because I know it is not lost at all.
Too potent.
Impressive.
Your love will linger
beneath the scars,
and pulse with my blood,
a part of my being that
there are no words for,
a story that has written itself and
ends exactly as it is supposed to.
In love.
In gratitude.
The greatest love stories are timeless.
As published by Elephant Journal: http://www.elephantjournal.com/2016/03/our-love-story-poem/
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