I bet this has been written a thousand times
in a thousand different rhymes
but her love is like a village I walk through
and thoughts of her
church bells and chimes
alerting the old blacksmith
that God isn’t dead
and waking the napping child
still lazy in bed; in the morning sky, she is…
the purple-and-red, wake-from-the-dead – light!
there instead of some instant fulfillment:
the sky could’ve just had an on-off switch
but where’s the romance in that?
She is like that: more than the adequate,
the necessary,
if my life were a hurricane
– and it is –
she’d be the aftermath
because as roaring as the hurricane wind is
the destroyed silence afterwards
hits harder
She is the top crust of the orange fire
in a small gas-lit flame
so maybe the best things in life do rise to the top after all
– or maybe the most beautiful of the glow
naturally separates from the rest
the subtle orange grace
separating from ugly blue base –
She is the impeccable silence when you shake your head – unable
to describe something
but for every moment I spent mute
with everything to admire and nothing to say,
I’ve spent ten moments making sure everyone around me
would want to fall in love with her too
She is the worst and greatest of everything
broken in two
so that sometimes she shares it with me…
you know – she doesn’t usually share
and if I were her I wouldn’t share myself either
but then that’s why I’m ultimately grateful
she is not me
and if silence is everything, I’ll say:
she is not me,
only my –

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