he kisses me
as if he has better things to do
distracted by whatever
is in the foreword of his inner workings
tick tocking behind his blue eyes (those eyes!)
sketching plans on invisible whims
to catch the first train out of the station
riding heady currents of his singular thoughts
he has slept in my bed
for a thousand years
that have nothing to do with me
what has love got to do with it
Counting back to that first glance, seconds and minutes,
hours and years, the desire and candor of bodies,
when our days became charged with the pace of lives lived.
Years of longing renounce the yearning to another,
no longer young. The clamor of middle years
leaves satisfaction and knowledge in its place,
a quietness whose heft outweighs the struggles.
Wisdom is as wisdom does, patience is its own reward,
love never fails, never. And this is the choice,
made and kept, to choose you now and at each sunrise.
Until the day comes that my hand is not recognizable to you
And my laughter is silenced by your unknowing eyes.
— This always seems to be a poem people come back to from time to time. And Valentine’s Day would seem to be a good time to re-post.