Friday, November 4, 2011
I expected to be inspired long ago by you. The way we came together, two raging fires. I expected it to yield volumes of poetry, pages of prose- at the very least, a note or two. And yet, we spent the first years of our melding locked in one another, blocking out the light of others; no one to enter the sacred bond. There are buds of stories locked tight inside my belly, I thought the hot water of your love would open them to flower. But they’ve shrunk to less than leaves, browning, itching and bothering.
Posted by Beth at 1:04 PM