Little Things

Remember when it was brand new;
when we were brand new.
How we’d sacrifice moments of sleep,
for even the slightest extension of togetherness.
How everything was mystery and possibility,
and inside one another’s eyes was an oasis of hope.

Remember when the bottom fell out,
that instant our narratives collided
and there was no turning back, thank god.
Remember the lightness of no mistakes, 
our absolute romance, grown heavier with time,
made more durable and real.

And all the little things,
how they felt so damn, 
How the first poem I wrote you,
you read daily. 
Remember when we were cautious,
everything meant something; 
and nothing was taken for granted.

Remember, remember, remember,
as if we could forget.
How is it possible to miss something before it’s even gone?
But I do, miss you, miss me.
Like I miss Mexico and the ocean and my own innocence.
Like I miss something I’ve never know, 
but want to believe in.
Like I miss feeling safe.

No one’s to blame, 
but it’s everybody’s fault.
All those damn little things. 
How they used to sparkle, and now
sometimes they sting.
How sometimes the big picture gets obstructed
by fear and ego, and because we are assembling
in the dark without directions, 
in a language we’ve yet to master.

Even after all this time,
wearing wounds of childhood, layered over with, 
the best we could.
What is love’s work?
To heal one another, to hold on, to let go.
All of the above, 
and then some.

The accumulation of all those little things
I can’t quite name or touch or hold,
they keep me coming back, 
that keep your heart wide open.
Amazing how our collective trauma, 
added up, 
nearly negates itself, 
leaving a blank canvas, 
and a story with ending, unwritten.

I want you, to watch me
spill out, onto your flesh, as your steady hands
and soft sound draw the words right out of my heart. 

And somehow its spring again.

-Micah Stover 

PoetryJulia NusbaumComment