I don't know why He whispers in my ear
But not yours.

But I do know that every time I get discouraged
Or afraid of what your damaged hearing might mean for us,
The wind brushes my hair to cheek,
Stealthily delivering His message:
"This is not by chance.
You did not stumble into each others' lives by mistake.
I made you for him and him for you
And threw you into each other like gasoline into the fires that burn within your souls.
You will make mistakes," He says to me
"You cannot be perfect. But you can try. I know how hard you already do. Just be there for each other, let Me be there for you, and
Keep
On
Going."

You asked me to write more poetry.
"Remember that one you wrote for me when we first started dating?
I read it all the time,
It was so beautiful."
"That was an anomaly,"
I retort.
"I do not write poetry; I get tattoos and haircuts. I stretch my earlobes and dress funny. I buy signs from homeless people; that is my art."
My eloquence is nonexistent,
I do not carry the right kind of pain with me
Nor do I have enough beautiful thoughts
to write good poetry.
The only thing I could spurt out for you
Is only 15 lines long.
A pitiful piece of work.