What Moves Through Us

When I told you I would love you forever
I did not know then that love could look
like this. It is winter and the day is dim,
even at its brightest. The love, it still
threads every breath. And the night
comes so soon and lasts so long and
I know it will be longer tomorrow
and longer tomorrow next and longer after that.
And I love you. And it is so dark. And I love you
and it is a season of dark. Inside, there
is a garden, of course. Inside there is
this harvest of grief, its plush black force
dark enough to match the night, the moonless
night, the long, long night. Part of me wants
to claw at the dark, to shred it as if there is
light on the other side. And part of me
sits very still by the window and arrives.
And I love you, though it is not what I
thought love would look like and not
what I might choose. The ice is still thin
on the pond, and there are cracks where the water
the cold, cold water leaks through. The silence
is silent, silent. Not silent enough to hide in.
Not silent enough to lose what hurts.
And I love you and I believe in forever,
or something vaster than that, something
unutterable, mysterious, untouchable with words.


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