My Dear

memory fades,
and then comes into focus:
a few shots of whisky,
and more than a little
and I remember You and I,
and a bright August sky,
and my nerves rattle
and my heart does battle
with my head,
and I remember how glad
I am that neither of us
is yet dead,
since there is so much more
to be absorbed,
so much time yet
for You to be adored;
I could stand on the highest
mountain, and shout to the
clouds of what I am certain:
that You remain
the most important link
in this life's chain;
nearly a year now,
that we will celebrate
next week,
and still the mere thought
of You makes me weak;
not gonna get all sappy here,
just some lines,
wound tight, late at night,
to tell You:
You're My Dear.

August 18, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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