We go in with a knowing…
Faith that telling our barest bones
can lead to a structure
that will keep us safe, warm and loved.
Letting us be understood,.
Not even knowing about innerstanding…
Letting us become worthy shelter
for worthwhile love.
We quiet the fear of offering our hand.
The factors are counted:
- Before you, I was another person. I am afraid to tell you that story, even though who I am now could not have existed without who I was, and you tell me you can love me; that you want my love. I believe in you.
- My experience can bend yours over backwards, and yours can twist mine into something I never saw in it before. We can learn from each other, if we accept one another. I am willing.
- There are some things I have done that I wish I could have shared with you, but that opportunity has passed. I grieve that, selfishly, because I want this to be new, though we both know there is nothing new under the sun. We both know that we are just a logical conclusion, either a beginning or an ending or both, depending on what you believe about the cycles of time and their relevance. To me, this is the first time I have ever known you, though I have met your spirit many times before. This is the golden moment of amazing grace, for now I see you clearly.
We reveal our weaknesses slowly,
Unravel our insecurities in a not enough, too soon
Too much, if ever
Not enough, never kind of way.
At the same time, we sit comfortably at each other’s tables
like old friends and lovers of past lives,
expecting things that are usually unexpected,
like we have the imprint of it
already in our souls.
We open ourselves
and maybe even their cures.
waiting on the other side of newly discovered doors…
Not knowing how best to prepare our lovers
for the trigger-bangs that might hit their foreheads,
dead centre before day breaks
if we let the spout flow too quickly
in the kitchen of our concept creations,
See, we are always afraid of the let go of no more,
The seconds and thirds we will crave
So anxious for arrival that we will it to come faster,
Come screaming down the rails
a locomotive ablaze…
Rip the band-aid quickly.
For the price of a stronger sting, it ends faster.
Or rip it slowly.
Watch each hair pulled free,
each follicle rising angrily at betrayal.
Forgetting the new skin.
Focusing on the scar.
This is my fear of commitment talking,
And this is my desire to overcome,
We went in with a knowing.
We counted the factors,
Found ourselves still wanting one another,
Bringing life back to the centre, slowly…
Picking up pieces and disposing
of what we can,
so it doesn’t trip us on our way up
our spiral staircase.
© Sonya Littlejohn, 2011