I love you, but not in a desperate way

My heart knows what it feels like to have desperately loved you, long ago. And now, like a map, a compass, my heart has always known the route to your hidden treasure.

A window re-opened after a century, after a rebellion, after a generation, after a lifetime. A window re-opened that is still attached to a house built long ago, but still easily, fondly, found on the map.

It took us 25 years to utter the words ‘I love you’ – across state lines, across a new century, across adulthood.

In the rain, under your eyes, beneath the gaze of the moon, we start anew with an olde flame.

Our lives suddenly smashed together after so many years orbiting other planets. So out-of-the-blue, yet the largest island on the map. How have we missed the shores for so long, only to be drawn directly onto the beaches in one fell swoop?

It’s like a wonderful childhood that was only captured in pictures that we are only now removing from a secret drawer and actually stepping into.

Was this not supposed to happen? To re-open this particular window at this particular time? What will we miss if we do not cross this never-before-crossed bridge that was so easily built long ago?

Are we the authors of a book that shone across our faces, only to be kept in our hearts for a generation, but now… re-awakened like an earthquake?

I love you. But not in a desperate way. But in a way of canyons and gardens, of questions and sharpening, of magic and science.

I love you as both a young man and an old man. With a mixture of agony and peace, of dirt and harvest, of earth and sky.

Poem #2 for Carrie Beth Wick – Mar 31, 2015

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