I don't travel much,
but when I do,
the absence of
omnipresent,
immovable
mountain ranges
always
disturbs
me.
I miss the
calming, cool blues and greens
that frame
my world,
and feel
e   x   p   o   s   e   d
without them.
But they welcome me
home
with
a sure embrace
each time.

I am tiny,
miniscule amidst
these waves,
gray, grave, and claiming
every ounce
of
will and work
from my poor soul.
I have so much to give,
but how little it is
when compared with
the demand.

The gap
b e t w e e n
my arms,
created by your
a  b  s  e  n  c  e
from them,
***** my
breath
a  w   a    y.

Flowers in spring, me out of bed in the morning, and clean, fresh clothes. The miles in front of a long car drive, and the scenery before the eyes of the passengers. My heart in his hands, or my soul under my mother's gaze. Lawn chairs and lunches on sunny beach days with friends, when water sparkles, the sun embraces, and laughter is prince of the day. Hands held out to help those who have fallen, and vulnerability in the eyes of those accepting the offer. Music from the lips and instruments of men, then from the radio as we dance at 2 AM in the light of the TV. Romance as darkness falls, personal space shrinks, and eyes connect in intimacy. Moonlight as it peeks over a tree-capped mountain, slipping into the bedroom window from between the curtains.

"Do you like writing poetry?"

It's a strangely
difficult
question to answer.
I do not
like
it.
I do not
love
it.
It's something I
must do,
just
as much as
I must breathe.
If I do not,
I die a little
inside,
and it is
a - part - of - me,
just
as much as
my lungs.

No, love.
I am not a knight in shining armour.
My armour is bent and dented and
cracked, and underneath it are cuts
and bruises and scars from the horrors
of countless battles I've seen, and
some of them almost did break me.

No, love.
I am not a knight in shining armour.
But if you'll have me,
I'm prepared to take a vow and swear
an oath of fealty and devotion and love.

You need only ask.