November 12, 2009 § Leave a comment

I used to write poems. Poems about being sad, lonely, depressed, angry. Poems about thinking I found love, poems about being completely crushed up, realizing I was wrong. And then I DID find love, and there were poems about that. Pages upon pages of lovesick rambling poems. I was a fountain, and I spewed forth poetry.

And then we settled into comfort. I fall asleep next to him every night and wake up at 3am to his raucous snores. We eat every meal together, mix our laundry, and leave the bathroom door open if it's just #1, cracked if it's #2 (in case there's something that has to be said right then and there). There is nothing new, nothing making my heart yearn, nothing that transforms me like that drunkenness of finding him did. I still love him as much as I did back then, but the fountain has run dry.

Instead, I am sharing those emotions. I have nothing to write because the words aren't clawing at my chest to get free. I get to let them free long before they start to flutter in my ribcage. We talk, we share, we experience all those poetic things–whether his emotions or mine. Our relationship is those things.

Being a WE is living poetry.


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