Reflection on my tendencies, words, and the fear of impermanence

There are days (most of them I’ll be honest)

that I wish you’d say I love you more,

go out of your way

to vocalize something

that we both Know—

the way we are both Knowing that

whatever comes after this

beats this place by a long shot, and

hoping you’ll hang in there when some

days it seems gravity and the brokenness

of an evolution that favored

minds over limbs

is bent on bending you to it’s own will.

I don’t know why

it matters to me so much,

some utterance

when I know you were lucky

(which is the littlest of words I could use)

to retain your words at all.

Your beautiful words,

all those you’ve given me

in the passing evenings,

while the show is paused

and the rain lashing that metal roof

we’d hoped would give us more of a show,

or in the depths of contemplating

whatever all of this even is

while I’m lying next to you,

because I Am, in fact,

the walls that house you,

the privilege to hear

every thought you dare breathe in me.

All those words you’ve given me,

years in the form of light

coming off your reflective surface

when I dare to break another thing

because I don’t like what I see in you me.

So why am I hung up on certain words?

Like some prayer to be said

whenever the moment arises,

lest I die before I wake

without having asked one more time

for forgiveness?

Because I do Know the way you love me.

It’s evident in the way you move,

even if less fluidly now.

It’s evident in the thoughts you have that

I will never hear.

Those that somehow slip through

the cracks of these walls that house me,

the privilege that is birthed from those

few silences that are still allowed to exist

between lovers; those unspoken things

that leave their taste on everything

you do.

But I focus on the gaps,

and cling to a need to hear you say it

one more time,

Because, I suppose,

somewhere in me

that’s still under construction,

I know you love me

the same way we are knowing

that the sun will rise:

With a vastness of certainty

that I can hold in my hands

to marvel at for a moment,

made all the more terrifyingly beautiful

for that little whisper

that still exists therein—

but what if it doesn’t?