Yes, a piece lingers still inside your heart

the past upon your rib, healed but ever true ever scarred


Yes, there’s a bit of her wove into your mind

  memories carved into your membrane, distant but ever acute ever fine


Yes, you’ve loved already, loved fast, and loved hard

  but no, I am not dismayed, delayed, insecure, or afraid 

for its first passions , first wounds, and broken puzzles of which have made whom I know you are.

 Indeed our pixels and parts have surely come undone

it was grit, it was mess, and it was hurt but its where we come from.


Freckle by freckle 

I will count, I will listen, I will learn to see

the mystery of this complimentarity 

the mystery of this you and me.


A  new image, a new picture, a new promise for something better 

Your soul to my soul

 we fit here : 

Your hand in my hand

 we fit together.


“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you . When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Thank you, Margery Williams.