Sometimes love stories are images in our heads, rumpled sheets, half empty wine glasses, rose petals on water, clothing shed.
It’s ice and snow here, in our hearts and in our dreams. We are paradise searching, footprints in the sand wandering, while the waves take the road map and we can’t follow one another home.
I want walls in our beautiful house to sing-to be privy to the sounds of laughter and not tears. To hold our secrets in it’s creaking floors and not loud voices flung to the moon afraid that this time it’s really too late. Lonely in my bed, but settled as the moon watches me struggle.
I want to hold hands walking mountains of goodwill and changing seasons, as soft brown hair and an old mans face dances on lines of wisdom, laughing.
I want the broken pieces of change upon our lives, to come together and create a soft, rounded mosaic of our time together, instead of splinters in our feet so painful we wear shoes and socks and put blinders on and won’t look anymore at the pain-
There is still heart and stubbornness and some tentative steps towards talking and we bow our heads and pray for change, as we linger, hoping for renewal and sometimes our eyes still meet in the middle and they are kind. We are not done reaching, and we are too afraid to touch any wounds left bleeding. So we stay, praying for the balm to come and the laughter to return and to know that deep place of peace-
we will kiss, naked in warm water and tasting of summer and peaches and start over writing our love story.