We have our stories, don’t we?
Of friends, and foes, and vacation trips.
Wants, and needs, and those we’ve loved.
And when the days grow shorter still
It’s stories that remain to fill our cup.
For once I sat quiet and listened.
We create in this life.
We can’t help but do it, and we try.
But love?
You can’t create love.
It comes. Or it doesn’t. Of its own accord. Of its own mind.
I didn’t understand it all. Maybe never will.
Love, to me then, was like seeing new things.
My God! Little Angel, but I wish some days back again.
Have them come out different.
But then, who would I be now?
A different sort of man in a different sort of world.
And you might not be in the same place either.
What days?
And when?
Sad days? Or happy ones?
Days remembered
Which run a race against the new ones in our minds.
Days of pride, and days of shame.
Days of laughter, days of ignorance, days of both.
Days that dared frame this life’s fearful symmetry.
Have you loved a lot? I wanted to know.
You tell me you love me.
Is that a lot?
Like a lake? Or an ocean?
I’ve known you since you were small enough to manage in two bare hands
Against my shoulder, against my chest.
Like a jewel.
Like the loveliest thing life can imagine.
Just the simple softness of your unadorned self.
Are feelings like that easy to mock?
I mean, too many at one time, and something empty, too?
I’ve felt like that once or twice I think.
Like no one’s ever told me.
And I’m not telling anyone.
Of all the years I’ve seen
I do believe the ones best spent have been since you arrived.
They’ve changed everything around.
You are goodness rising. Alive in you; alive in me.
And that’s my little love story for two for tonight.