All those plans we had for what we thought
love was supposed to be—all those directions
that someone else wrote that we followed step by step,
all those destinations we knew we just had to reach,
all those trails and roads and paths,
they were all dead ends.
It was innocent enough. Still, when standing at the edge
of a cliff that was supposed to be happily ever after, it is hard
to not want to blame someone.
And after the days of vertigo, and after the nights
of told-you-so and after the years of why and how
and taking an eraser to all the plans,
and after the shedding and after the seeking
and after we stopped believing in believing,
and after the masks fell off and our hands were emptied
love showed up right here, growing like a volunteer seed.
Who could say what it is, what it will become?
So we nourish it together, marveling as it grows into itself.
An excellent (and unexpected) turn of phrase:
“Still, when standing at the edge
of a cliff that was supposed to be happily ever after, it is hard
to not want to blame someone. …”