05 December 2014

heavy birds, the possibilities of all things, and you



You are the only thing I can't write about. 

You being sick is the only thing I can't write about. 

(And why is that?)

I try to start...


but just end up with,

I love you, I love you, I love --

you. 



Over and over, a wind-up, toothy chatterbox (wheeling over the top of the piano in the living room I have made for us in my mind, and neither of us plays, but I like the possibility of all things, and that is the problem here) --



and yes, over and over. Nothing else feels worthy to fill up that space. 

(That space you could leave

...with me.)



And there is no immediate danger -- on this day, in this hour, in this minute, moment -- 

but I feel it sitting on my chest like a heavy bird draws down the power lines, from years ahead. 

And I have to write this out just so you know: the next time I come up and rub your back, tousle your hair (that I love, that wisps into curls so delicately at the ends), and tell this to you eight times fast...

Just so you know: 
It's true. 
It's also because I can't say anything else. 

6 comments:

  1. Positive energy, thoughts, and vibes towards you and yours. This was beautiful and vulnerable. I sincerely hope things get better.

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  2. You are a poet. I hope everything will be ok.

    xx mollysee

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  3. Exactly the way I feel about my husband. You took the words right out of my heart!

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  4. I am at a loss for words, tugs at my heartstrings. Sending love and prayers your way.

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