Another Sunday story (aka poem).
This one has been told to me so many times, too many.
It was no big thing
but all of the small ones
piles upon piles of thin regret
forgotten words hanging so low
and the ones they couldn’t forget too
uttered softly but landing hard and full of pain.
They wonder if
they can come undone
over nothing big enough
only jagged parts made of
misplaced steps and carelessness
with no betrayal so hot they turn to dust.
And it seems they can
because small pieces are
like pebbles inside the heart
that roll around and poke at them
until one day that burden is all they feel
and gentle love is crushed beneath the weight.
hard and fast
when finally they notice
this brokenness scattered like
debris they must avoid with their
bare feet and hearts and souls too.
It’s so hard
they scream to
the persistent whisper
who tells them there is no more
that this is all there is for any of us
fractures inside the body that poke and crush.
go on this way
letting it all pass by
pale and empty and less
than they vowed to be for each other
resignation filling every single breath.
Or be brave enough
to take out their hopes
and present them as gifts to
be gently unearthed and considered
even amidst all of the angst and doubt
trusting in the peace that comes from letting go.
Because love remains and everything else is no big thing.