Evermore

Storms grew in the distance.
I was still loving the sea,
salty and sweet.
The wind disagreed,
ignoring my plea.

I didn’t erase it,
didn't negate it,
defeatedly faced it,
surrendered
and rendered
my loss into paint.

My patterns, flawed,
built a wall 
to withstand all
of the silence and anger
despite every morning coffee
and packed lunch and drawn-on napkin.

No grandiose vacay.
Instead, I showed every day
in cascading ways
how much I embraced
my love for your face
and held space
for every trace
of the chase
in this race
we call fate.

Patience, belief,
eventually grief,
imperfectly good,
understanding un-stood
got up and unraveled
by acts of
redaction.

I’m a lover, not a soldier.
We brought out in each other
people we no longer
want to be known for.

Love isn’t clenched fists.
Love is loosening grips.
Love isn’t slips
out of bed on a trip
to the other room in the midst 
of the night without even a kiss.

Our differences are what drew me
to you—your contrast, your whimsy.
Damn, I can still feel
this love disarmingly real.
So how selfish am I
to try
and pursue
more of your time?
What drew you to me? You couldn’t say
for days.
Message received, I’ll just go away.
It’s okay.

Skip the needle on my own repeat.
I can't eat,
couldn’t sleep,
didn't blink,
wouldn't breathe,
until eventually...

I chose reverence
and my own skin.
Only then
could I begin 
to understand when,
where, how, and who I am.

My errors I clearly see
and the conspiracy
of what took the heat
for tripping over itself and skinning its knee.
Now you're free
of me.

Despite the milk spilt,
the empire we built
is no reason to cry,
but to try
and survive
and promise to thrive.

As I walked through the dark
electricity arced a spark
that my love leaves a mark
like this tattoo of our heart.

I love you out loud,
I still don’t know how
we got so lost in the crowd,
pounded
the ground,
drowned
in the sound,
until we came back around,
astounded
to have found
out
the chips in our crowns.

Think what you will,
say what you want,
feel how you may
about me.
Please know
no one has filled
a gallery or a book
or tiny canvases
or a lunch or a cup
of coffee or a stack
of pre-drawn napkins
or late-night bowls
of cereal
again,
and again,
daily
for me
ever.

Nor have I done
any of these
things
for any other
ever
before
or
ever
after.

— Tami Jo Urban