The Familiarity

We have lived our lives in minor variations,
in subtle movements,
and sound.
We lost our love in The Familiarity.
Off-beat rhythms,
an un-syncopated waltz.
Discordant in our distance,
unharmonious patterns emerged.

We did not make room for simple devotion.
Me,
with grandiose overtures,
and you,
with your meditative soliloquy.

This disconnected life.

You sit on grey stones,
the sun beats down,
and I water the plants
I bought to show you that I still loved,
that I can love,
and be loved.

While you’re not looking,
I carry us around like a bag of rocks.
Under my pericardium,
I have stitched your soul a temporary home.
To offer some respite,
To rediscover permanency.

I have lived my life in minor variations.

I wrap my arms around your creased belly,
I hold on,
just to be held.
To heal and be healed.

We start the mornings by moving in fifths,
to move us forward,
to edge us closer.
The simple act of seeing each other.
Coffee smells,
on covered porches,
the roses shed their petals,
sending energy to their roots.
Jasmine fills the air.

A call to prayer in the distance beats out as a Duduk player manifests.
His soft palate,
teeth against apricot wood.
A deep resonance emerges.
A divine resistance.
We find a connection in sound.

We have lived our lives in minor variations.
We made love this morning.
You recalled it was the first time in years.
And we were good.