On Love
Raising the Dead — Breathing Life Back into Our Love
A bridge between the islands
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Other than perhaps once, I hadn’t written a “true” poem in ages. I consider it “true” when it’s written organically. The words flow freely and are not forced to fit. A reader knows a “true” poem when they read one.
Jack is stoic. Both his happy and sad face look incredibly similar. And now that he’s older and his muscles are weaker, it takes all the more effort to change his expressions. It’s exhausting. Try staying married to that for 13 years. Now, that’s “true.”
He is Japanese and has these little brown lash-less eyes. In our whole time together, I’ve seen real tears from one of those eyes slide down his face. Guardians of the Galaxy. Nebula and Drax. Again, see what I’m dealing with here?
What I’m getting at is that it takes a lot to make this man cry. Since my taking on the “official” job title of “author,” he is now subjected to hearing iteration after iteration of my stories. Various tenses, points of view, protagonists, opinions, facts, opinions on facts, and facts about opinions. He has defended himself countless times. I’ve had to tell him to simmer down many times. All that stress is bad for his heart…
