What of I-
a shameful, bounded pronoun,
kept in serious regard
by fidgety masters of angular homes.
but for you, though tired,
though cut to pulp and sinew,
and grave through trials,
my soul is choked by your tears.
for 114 minutes i find slow words faltering-
and consider at length, the thoughts of another-
“the same heat warms tears
as bears scars on a home.”
how keenly love wells up-
and after love’s death,
like fireflies glow, it returns-
momentarily de-focusing the world
Love is –
the most beautiful ,
lapse of judgement.
and you deserve somebody who appreciates the beauty in lapses in judgement.