The bitter potion
Of passion
And sacrifice
Is delicate to those who don't understand it,
Pain
Stress
Neglect,
Summoned by themselves
To consume
And treasure in their own debt,
For we live
And we learn
And we love.
And hurt.
And somewhere
Within the midst of it all,
Is beauty.
In between the stillness
Of recognizing
Who we are
As individuals
And that moment
When our eyes lock
And nothing could be more perfect
Than the imperfections
That draw me near you
Because no one else has hands
That fit too closely into mine
As if God molded us from the same clay
As if our heartbeats once started on the same rhythm
As if nothing breaks me more
Than your loneliness
Than you feeling terribly homesick
But they say
Home is where the heart is baby
And no matter how bitter
This distance can be
My home
Rests upon your chest