we carry our lives in our pockets,
our love on strings tied in knots, tattered
around our necks, pulled down by the weight of urgency,
of being, without paying mind to the air we breathe
on our best days.
this is not about an ending.
there are no meteors shooting towards an unreachable horizon,
no aurora shimmering, climbing and falling again.
there is no mirror in the sweet scent of decay,
no shivering stone awaiting my words.
we carry arms-full of bergamot and asters
into buildings with spires and pools that cool our feet.
we stand tall in white, bespectacled by sunlit rainbow projections
beaming through windows where hummingbirds crash like true believers.
this is not about a beginning.
we set out so many times on paths worn in grass,
from porch steps, from kitchens where we hold each other.
we walk next to each other along roadways
our hands in our pockets, forgetting the compassion tendered by another’s touch.
this is about the lives we make and the lives made for us.
there is no shame in the wanting or holding the hand of a dreamer too long.
there is no weakness in trying.
humanity is the latter part of love
& it’s the meaning, the middle & the understanding that count,
each a fair distance from where we stand now,
or as close as our next breath.
~~~
