Oh The Possibilities

She asked,
“Why do possibilities
seem to end
at the introduction
of rain?
There are more colors
than regret and sorrow;
more shades for
bliss to borrow
than dismay
and hollow.”

I figured,
we triggered
the trickle to dwindle
from deluge to timbrel
but this wasn’t simple.

We fiddled, we fumbled,
we diddled, we tumbled
and stumbled upon
like clashes of cymbals.

Bewildered,
befuddled,
we splashed in the puddles
then shuttled the mud
back to our shuttle;

which actually was home
a place we had flown
back from the books
from where we had grown.

The seeds were sown,
we dethroned the gnomes
that threatened our throne,
our garden of stones.

Hellish the battle
through lightening that crackled
and thunder that shackled
ear drums to be rattled.

But under our tent
noons we’d spent
imagining clouds
descending their scents.

Aroma of things
that we used to do
before we grew up
and abandoned our youth.

Tonight,
you choose.
We’ll bundle,
we’ll snuggle,
we’ll relight the fuse.
Redouble our cuddles
there’s no time to muse.

Roses will wilt.
Violins will play blues.
I’ll be your umbrella,
I’ll be your sombrero,
I will be your weather,
whatever you choose.

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If Loving You Was an Occupation

You’d be
the final resting place
for rewritten résumés,
the death of typos
and updates.

I’d rather not
enter into view
of anyone else but you,
whether it be by attention
or in the form of a thought;
I’ll plot to find
the nearest exit.

I am through
with self-image suicide;
I’d rather bask
in your acceptance.

If you’re ever to question what
are my favorite past times:

1) The informal introduction
to your dimples,
picture-framed suitably beautiful
for your smile.

2) Hairdo or coiffure.
Quite frankly, does it even matter
when your hair
harnesses the power
to shampoo my no’s
into conditioning me to say yes?
I think not.

3) The artistry, the sophistry
you wittingly inject
into the deck of our colloquies.
You always did have an
ace of spades remark
slicker than sleet
melting upon tin roofs.

4) You’ve implored,
pored more into my essence
without question.
There is no
theory of origins
within the parameters of me
too small for you to forget.

5) We are bound
by confessional ties.
Your secrets,
need not start with me
but best believe
I’ll be your mausoleum.

If loving you,
was an occupation
they’d have to change me
into a salary employee
for being guilty
of milking the clock.

I desire
no time off.
I’ll love you deep
into the weekdays,
twice as much
over the weekends,
pay holidays
to take more time off
just to pay you
more attention.

If loving you,
was an occupation
I’d need no benefits to stay.
I’d invest heavily
into your laughter,
your smile,
the best 401k
time could buy
this side of our lives.

If loving you,
was an occupation
I’d hope it to be
the last place I’ll ever
have to apply.