If decent words made perfect days,
Then all these verses would create
No hesitance between us now.
But such is not the world, or fate:
For while it’s true that love is much,
It can’t be everything, as such.
I see the fear upon your brow,
And worry that, one day, it stays.
To come together — pull apart —
This is the breathing cycle of
All things that with true meaning live:
Like people, friendships, fam’lies, love —
I wish, at times, it was not so.
This respiration, ebb-and-flow:
The taking off when you would give,
That stretches, frays, and wounds the heart.
Acceptance may be wisdom, true,
And love be more like gardening:
To know to wait when it is time
For balancing, or pardoning,
Or finding spaces in our words
For what, unspoken, must be heard —
That love knows boundaries. For I’m
Uncertain as to me and you,
Except, to know what I should do —
To wait ’til you come back to me,
If that day ever