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Dear Love:

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And I the small child whose parent’s conversation passed above his head like blue clouds that were too high to touch, too high and way too airy to duck. The undiscovered words would spring from mothers julep lips as if sipping aromas that match the adult juice in their tulip glasses. As father caught the words he would refuse to hold onto them and they would fall to the hardwood floor making loud thumps. Many times I would pick up the word and try to see inside of them like a young Columbus discovering a new world. But they were so heavy and I was too young so I would replace their words with my own words while pocketing theirs for later in life when I knew how to use them. The rosewood on the floor would try to hold onto these most private words keeping them from my grasp, but the floor had no hands, I now know the floor was trying to protect me. At five if I knew what damage these words would later do to hurt others, I would have burned them on my tongue and spit them back on the floor saving the life of the only woman I would and could ever love. If only I had found sorry on that hard cold floor that day. Sorry a word never disposed of by my parents. I guess only the hard wood knew that hard words were sometimes just too hard to hold.

 

                                Dear Love: Forgive me for my vocabulary, or lack thereof.

Your loving son.

Comments (1)

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Ok... so I love this poem so much. I am that child that watched the words smack the hard-wood floors... I can feel the ache for "sorry". Thank-you my friend.

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