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Thursday, July 10, 2014

The Hand You Hold

What do they call love these days?
-- genetic, hormonal, a need for oxytocin;
(I'm not partial to all these new fangled ways of loving)

but there I was, a cool gale wrapped around me;
skin on edge, teeth chattering,
whistling for a warmth to find me;

and there you were, and all I know is you stopped my breathing,
right in here; somewhere that's never known
                                                             the beauty of decaying,
to be drilled from the inside out, a root canal of the spiritual mouth
that swallows you, taking you in, and in, and in,
to fill you up with such hope from within
that even when faced with death you just know you'll go on living;

that kind of old fashioned thing:
where you find yourself humming;
where her hand is your everything
you need to climb a few mountains by morning,
or shake the stars down as playmates for the muse
you're going to hold, and keep on holding;

and where you discover you don't choose
how to be bold with the right girl;
she chooses you, because you see
love is simply the hand you hold,
and the hand that holds you
as though you are the world.

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