Mornings turn into afternoons,
and afternoons turn into evenings.
The nights could be described as
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,
if I was to look back,
And as I look back over
these dusty, flattened memories,
all I notice now is
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