Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Monogamy

We planted flowers where nobody would find them,
exchanging vows like Christmas gifts at the gates of he old factory on the hill that was meant to be flats six months ago.
Life was always slow, in this kind of town,
the kind of place where sunsets and winter winds become one,
and life goes on,
day by day,
late bus by late bus,
late dinner by late dinner,
collapsing into a slumber that allowed another day to creep by.

It was the same,
until I saw her,
and that’s when I began sowing seeds on the streets,
smiling at the sun that set them on the right path.
I trained my left hand to carry the heavy, holy promise of her love,
but I could never be ready.

I held her like a mother.
I shivered like a child.
I don’t think I’m done growing,
but it stumbles by the wayside for a while,
my bones, breaking and healing as my soul sits atop my shoulders, shaking her head as I search my surroundings for danger, that would never come.

Her vows and her faith weigh heavy on my mind,
but her body is light and loving on my lap.

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