Still

I shouldn’t think of you still.

The science says 6 months to two years.

And yet. The thought of whisky and ice, and your-

… add one more night to the leaning.

jrb

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Not a single thing

It is not so remarkable. To be two in seven billion. To find each other in the throng. It is not so remarkable to navigate the wide oceans and narrow fences between us, to swim and scramble, and to arrive at each other at last.

It’s not so remarkable to shake loose from our skins, to shed the layers of other lives – to lay naked and begun in borrowed arms. There is nothing to revere in the slow unwind, in the pulse and rise of you and I. In the honesty of opened palms, and the delicate invitation. These consummations of an extra-ordinary kind.

There is nothing special in this, my love. To fall so hard that you prefer the ground. How it sinks you in and you’re finally found. How all around us people are buried alive, and here we are – gasping for air.

(There is not a single thing worth holding there).

Not a thing at all, I have to say. If you close your eyes and take your time. If you think on what we had, and made … if you think about just what we were given. I feel certain that now we would have to agree. It is not so remarkable at all.

#

“And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.” ~ Jason Mraz
Jacqueline Rock Bublitz by Joanne Piechota at body, remember

Eidyia by Joanne Piechota

The glare of your gold band

For seven years we were lovers.

For seven years you shucked me from my skin, shook me loose and left me scrambling for the pieces. Everything I had ever learned receded in the glare of your gold band. I spent years riding my freedom with the curb of this bit.

And as your sign flickered on and off I measured my days by whether your vacancy was illuminated. My greatest love was no less than my greatest folly.

What would they say if they knew just how much I gloried in the farce.

Image by Joanne Piechota

Image by Joanne Piechota