tell her if i could do anything it would be just to lay there and hold her

we would talk about our day and i would just run my fingers over her bare shoulder

play connect the dots with her freckles while the sunlight dances on her skin

close my eyes as her aura cleanses my weary spirit and frees me of sin

or at least i tried to write some sappy dirge about her

the her only she and i know

i see her out of the corner of my eye when the weakness is strong

she brings out the contradiction inherent in nature effortlessly

with that clumsy grace of a newborn foal and a ghost of a smile

when i was a child she was this nebulous warmth

a candy coating on future aspirations

an eight cheese decadent lasagna with perfectly browned corners

each bite an emulsification of flavors layered upon your tongue

rosemary and oregano freshly plucked from the garden and gently rolled with practiced fingers to release the aroma and flavor to compliment the acidity of the tomato and full coating of tongue with creamy melted cheese and olive oil infused in garlic

she was layered and rich with promises of bliss

a joyous ode to the dusty streets of a sleepy village in italy

children laugh and chase each other up cobblestone streets while naps are taken as the waves kiss the shore and a salty breeze with the hint of rain tickles the tongue

what she lost in luster over the years she replaced with comfort and familiarity

the scent of cookies baking as you stumble in from the waist high snow

the laborous task of removing sodden icy clothing

thick hand knitted cap and mittens that weigh half a pound each from water retention

the foamy moon boots that hold as much snow as they repel

the jacket

the sweater

the sweat soaked shirt and still frozen denim

all while the smell of butter and baking fill everything with a resonance of melted chips and a sugar high

she was that first cookie and a glass of milk as the nintendo fired up and you blew out the cartridge

the eight bit melodies of mushroom kingdom

like the first time you hear a song that vibrates at the exact same frequency as your soul

weaving it’s way through your mind until you wonder if it was written just for you

the first time i heard a record scratched was in par with the first time someone plugged in a guitar

felt like the first time early man took a bite out of a haunch of roasted meat

she is that first poem

where the rhyme scheme is as important as the content

the first time your soul was opened and all that spilled out was how no one understands

turned out we all understood

just expounded upon it in our own flavor of hushed crying and longing

but this is real and raw and sums up who you are

she is finding a way to bounce swept wept and crept down a shaky allegory as sad songs play on repeat

you wouldn’t get it

it’s art

she is every victorious defeat throughout history

she is a pile of leaves for a pillow and satin sheets for a cocoon

the bitter bite of medicine and the soothing drop of honey after

the snarl of anger and the healing mist of acceptance

makes war and love in equal grinding motions

a noxious mix of sour alcohol and chrysanthemums

on feathered wing and cloven hoof

a concurrence of brimstone and home

but that home you never can return to

once salvation and now a crypt of loss and spiderweb, broken stone trails and dark reverie where sunshine and shag carpet reigned

she is saturday morning cartoons and sugary cereal while the rest of the house sleeps

staying up late to see the top ten list and not getting all the jokes

she is a folded up note snuck across the crowded classroom

the cigarette in the welding hood in shop class and the smell of pine wood on a lathe

of driving in the middle of the night down gravel roads surrounded by high corn and throwing empties out the window and trying to figure out what any of it means

in the fetal position on the floor feeling like everything good and right has been ripped from your guts with a white hot hook as the rest of the world just keeps on spinning

she is the knowledge that this isn’t the only time you’ll feel this way and it doesn’t matter at all

a saline bath after removing the top three layers of skin

black panties and a riding crop

a soft serve machine twirl of entropy and creation on a stale cone with a dessicated roach at the bottom

counting back from one hundred as the gas fills the mask and the sharp pain at awakening

it was supposed to be romantic with sweeping affections

thorny rose bushes and diabetic candy hearts

feelings swept, for lovers wept, as darkness crept, down hallways filled with deadly trapping

a lack of air, her steely glare, all quite unfair, condescendingly laughs and points while clapping