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Pulse

Mornings turn into afternoons,
and afternoons turn into evenings.
The nights could be described as
blinks –
if I described these things,
if there were ears to listen.

I would say that days blur into weeks,
and weeks to months,
and a year is not long at all,
hardly –
if I was to look back,
and remember.

And as I look back over
these dusty, flattened memories,
all I notice now is
love.
Like flowers pressed
in the pages of the Bible.

But back then, love meant to me
a special event.
Gaudy and unique,
reserved for me.
If I still defined love that way,
I’d remember precious little.

I did not know and did not care
that love accomplished the everyday,
while excitement drove the displays
for those people I longed to be.
If I had known the subtleties,
perhaps I would have been content.

There I rested full against love’s chest,
hearing its heartbeat accomplish the mundane,
and I was oblivious to those tasks
so filled with love.
If I could show that kind of maintaining love,
I would be content.

5/27/2007 – edited on 8/25/2010
Sister poem to Arrhythm

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One comment on “Pulse

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