there is always a boundless joy in newfound love,
that surges through the veins like direct current,
sparking some nerve endings to life, once again,
maybe even teaching an old dog along the way,
and killing off, quickly, petrified memories
of all that was ill-gotten or just fouled,
that rush to the head the superheated blood
that, just like bleeding, reminds of life --
life, to be lived, not merely embraced,
kiss it, hug it, devour it, even lie to it and
tell it that it is the only one, the one true
and inescapable Life of Lives -- and then
fall onto the mattress, sweating, spent, and
dream of where all of life went;

I only wish that now I were not so constrained:
keeping my candle under this bushel,
and that this silent, secret love could be proclaimed,
for all of the boundless joy it has obtained:
but it is only for us,
only for us,
and that is good enough.

February 26, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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