I will not lie and suggest it doesn’t shock
Change is so subtle that it goes almost
Unnoticed in the familiar, your body to
Which I am as accustomed as to my own
Moves around me, its faultlines evident and
Marked just as the wrinkles that drag on
Mine mock my mortality so that it can no longer
Be denied or ignored, your frailty comes as a
Sudden surprise, my darling, change so subtle
That it has gone almost unnoticed, time has
An astonishing effect, its outcomes, not always
Welcome, or received as happy news. We are
Old, my darling. It is a consequence of time
And its subtle, almost unnoticed changes
I will not lie or suggest it does not shock
We will never be this young again
We always knew that, but didn’t
Believe it, until one day, looking
At pictures of how we were, when
We were that young, smiling photos,
The happiness blended with youth,
We had to confess that time had
Passed, happily and with the stealth
Of time slipping by, unnoticed and
Quieter than the images of those young
Happy people looking back at us
When did we go from
Young and in love to
Old and in love still?
Of course, we never
Really were young in love–
Our love sprang in midlife
And grew with companionship
And care, caring as we did
One about the other, but
Honestly, when you are in
Love, you are always young–
Now our hair is no longer grey
It has turned white, age
Has struck us and thrust us
Into a place we never
Expected, one where care
And caring matter more than
Ever they did when we were
Young and in love, although love
Has been our constant, and still
Love shall remain steadfast,
Love will be our Polar star.
Strident hearts, stalwart hearts,
Hearts as flighty as a deck of cards, capricious
And whimsical, or hearts as devoted as the proverbial
Doves, sincere as life-long fidelity, sentimental but not
Lost to sentimentality. The heart, a muscle, often stands in
For love. It is represented as an organ of desire, subject
To the arrows that Cupid throws our way, recognizing
The object of our devotion. There is much to be said of
The heart, stalwart or strident, fickle or loyal.
Can it be that the heart, a muscle, is an
Organ of desire? When it stands in for love, does it help
Us recognize our best selves, and find a soul mate?
Does the heart understand that love is better than
Lust? Are there hearts less choosy, easier to seduce?
Are some more finicky, like Shakespeare’s shrew,
Unwilling to submit without a struggle, and proofs
Of sincerity, and like-to-likemindedness
The heart’s a muscle, often standing in for love,
Beating 72 pumps per minute, fuelling our feelings of
Tenderness and remorse. Are we trivializing the work it does,
Just keeping us alive, powering us with the sustenance we need,
Nourishing every other organ with the blood-fuel that charges
Rapidly through our veins? This seems like it would be enough
Yet we demand so much more. Our heart must recognize our
Soul mate so we can live a heartfelt life and be our best self
It’s so easy to appropriate the other.
I am yours, you are mine.
Names, sounding so strange at first,
Quickly become our own.
The other, no longer unfamiliar, is now us.
We resonate in every syllable of tenderness.
Fully assimilated, the other is no longer
Unaccountable, or unexpectedly odd.
We, I and the other, are as one, in tandem,
We act together, we are decidely us.