So a couple of months ago
love walks through my front door, bangs his head on the pots and pans hanging from my ceiling and he's been here ever since. He asks to hear my poetry and then cries as my lonely voice rises like steam from spaghetti in my crowded little kitchen. He drinks all the beer and spills some while he's at it. I’ll be honest, love seems clumsy. He drops things. He washes my dishes, breaks my favorite mug then cuts his thumb while trying to repair it. Love often second guesses himself. He worries that he's not enough as the stars sprinkle themselves like confetti across the sky. I beg him not to waste these precious moments on fear and doubt. He cannot help himself. But this is not all that love does. Love helps me move and insists upon carrying all the heavy things. He stays right by my side when I’m sick and whispers sweet butterfly as I throw up in a trash can. This crazy love thinks that everything I cook is delicious. He calls me a poet in a voice that is hushed and awestricken, as if I'd singlehandedly cured cancer and then he proceeds to send me text messages worthy of Whitman. When love puts his arms around me, it’s like swimming in a stream that has been warmed by the sun all summer long. Sweet and true. Strong and deep. When he looks my way, love catches his breath a little sometimes. I can see it and then his glorious smile lights up the world. Love dreams with me in the inky blackness of my room and when he mutters in his sleep, I can hear my name sewn like bits of lace between the layers of his words. Love drives me hours to meet his father, singing cowboy songs at the top of his lungs, his hand tapping his heart on my thigh. When I step forward to shake dad's hand, love's face looks exactly like that of a small boy on Christmas morning, Love is gifted in the ways of the night and knows exactly how to tangle his hands in my hair. But the very best thing that love does is this - he says beautiful, honey pie. Do what you want. Be who you are and don't you let anyone stop you, including me. Spread those glorious wings and fucking fly, and I think he means it. So does it matter what we call each other? What words we use? Do I need to nail this shit down? No, because words don’t even do it justice. This is cocaine and coffee. This is lightning in my veins. This is big. It’s laughter down deep in my belly and the inside of a tiny cottage warmed by the flicker and flame of hope. Motherfucking hope. It is enough to know that this is love and I will take it and fly. I will hold out my hands and ask for more.
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Who am I?I’m a systems engineer and creative coach living in ABQ, NM. I believe that we can intentionally design our lives to align with our deepest dreams and desires. Archives
January 2023
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