Sometimes, I like to think of the times when you
come home. A long trip, traveling, working
doing your thing; your daily routine of providing.
I can see you soak in a hot steamy tub.
Lying back, your muscles ache,
your mind is on fire, griped in its endless cycle of thought.
I’ll sit on the side, sharing a little of your space.
I’ll serve you whiskey, in a rocks glass;
three fingers deep, and neat.
I’ll just look at you, and let you sparkle in the misty light.
You’ll tell me about the dumb shit you had to overcome.
You’ll tell me about all the fantastic shit that worked just right.
You’ll tell me about the moments when only if a certain action
would have occurred, leading to the exact right reaction.
And then you’ll layout your dreams, your plans for a tomorrow.
Things deeply set into broad future, of a day when all actions
will be equal to all reactions.
And I’ll laugh when the telling is funny.
And I’ll encourage when you need more hope.
But most of all, I’ll just love you.
I’ll always love you, even when I can’t.

Copyright © 2004 Sara Coslett