A thousand words, never to be written,
too many moments to translate.
An unnecessary task, but a preferred one.
It should be easy, I am a wordsmith, as you said,
but my fire is merely embers,
my hammer, lost,
The billows need patching.
Discouraged, I sit by my dying fire,
a pile of horseshoe memories by my side.  
Broken plough hopes,
iron backed words.
All once glowing red,
now solidified in time,
by the cooling tears in a barrel.

The scratch at the back of my throat
will not go away.
It aches, burns,
In the same way my chest aches,
my eyes burn.
I miss you.
I know we can call, I can hear your voice
on the other end of the phone line,
tired, gentle, soft, but still distant.
As though it were a thousand miles
instead of a hundred.
Our words are muted, conversations short.
Full of "I love you"s, "Please don't worry"s, and (I'm afraid overly) hopeful "I'll see you soon"s.
But somehow, the voice doesn't seems like yours.
I've always equated your voice with your touch, I suppose.
It's strange for them to be separated.
I expect your chest against my back, your hand to caress mine.
But it's still that little light- the tiny candle we hold for each other.
The candle of hope. Lit with the flame of love.

I have yet to bare my soul to you.
I've seen some of yours,
beautifully ragged and torn and patched,
but still strong, gentle.
Like the old quilts my grandmother made.
Only you're not half so old as they.

Our souls are old, regardless of our mortal age,
they've known much, seen much,
staring through copper eyes into a spectrum
of past, present, future.
Mine linger in the past,
yours glance back now and then,
but always know what's behind.

I was going to write a poem about you,
but I can't.
There's too much to say,
and besides,
I can't think of anything that compares to you.

"Define life," he said, "In under seven words."
Several gave their answers,
cold and scientific, their wavering hands,
hoping for good reputations.

I had an answer.
The word leapt to my lips,
struggled to part them,
but I clenched my teeth to hold it back.

"Love." My heart whispered.
"We have not life,  if we have not love."

But love is not in the textbook.

Child of earth,
With your muddied hands,
Half-moon fingernails black with soot,
From digging in the ashes
Of your forgotten playground.

Child of earth,
With your star-crossed eyes,  
Deep as sorrow, black and blue,
Look out to silver spires,
Sparkling in the midday sun.

Child of earth,
With your weathered feet
Armored in calluses, black from tar
Stumbling along familiar ground,
One with the rocks and soil.

Child of earth
With your sun-scorched skin
Darker than leather, black as midnight
As tight as a newly made drum
Holding your soul in tight embrace.

I dare not let you unlock
the clasp I cannot undo myself.
For what should spring forth,
from that Pandora's box,
amid pain, uncertainty, shame,
would tie and bind us in a thousand knots,
I know I could not untie.
And though you would cut free,
I know you would still have one, as a reminder of me.