i sit here thinking, trying to write
and worry what i’m scrawling won’t sound right.
flowers and tingles and rhymes and such
never end up amounting to much.
i could tell you i love you but i always do.
i could use cliche and sunshine describing you.
i could write about heartbeats, breathing, and flight,
or miracles, blessings, devotion, and fright …
sunsets and mornings, clouds and rain,
bittersweet moments, laughter and pain,
tasting and touching you right where you feel …
but how pure is this paper, this pencil, how real?
in thinking and writing, i’m feeling a fear –
a concern pressing harder as arrival draws near.
i’m not bearing flowers, a gift, or a ring.
when i’m with you soon, Baby, will you know that thing?
when i grab you and hold you
and look into you
will you doubt about distance, and growing
and fonder, without knowing
that inside i so live what this lead’s just not showing?
- tender lasting (Oct 1999) (inturruptingcow.wordpress.com)