Under my feet,
there's an ocean of cement.
After years of trying, I found a way
to wade through the city blocks and seascapes
that kept me from you.
When we were younger,
but not that young,
you’d hold my hand and pull me through
all this, so I never even knew the depth
of the water at the end of the Earth.
And now we’re older,
but not that old;
our bodies don’t float as well as they used to.
But it’s okay.
Our fingers together become a boat
keeping us near the surface.
I’ll never let go of your hand or your heart.
Sails are stronger in the open water
when there are two catching the wind.
Promise me that when the tide stops turning
and the world becomes so still
it seems like an oil painting,
you’ll be there yet--
teaching me to swim when
I’ve forgotten how water feels against
Never let me go. And I promise that I will
always row us to shore with my words
and my affection.
I can see it.
There’s a beacon in the lighthouse
calling us home every moment
with the words:
We are here, my love.
Writer, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.