Beneath the surface of love,
interlocking webs lie,
tangled and varied in contradicting directions,
of latching on and letting go.
Sometimes the synapse fires,
At other ends the water leaks in (out),
laced in doubt,
and we begin to sink.
Miles pass between us,
even while sitting side-by-side.
Squint and you can see it,
our souls out there waving,
mailing a postcard back home.
Sometimes we struggle upstream,
break the mold while we are still wet,
We carve our initials in the muck,
glue up the cracks,
mend each other from the fall.
The fog will make its eventual return,
as our feet will slip off the stones,
and we tumble from the sky.
On better days,
the parachute opens.
“No one ever said it would be easy” slips out,
because some cliches write themselves,
So we memorize and fluctuate our tones,
remind each other,
that we are electricity.
That we begin to connect when we let each other,
Honey Don’t Think :: Grant Lee Buffalo