Tercet 2

Lifetimes were spent between each breath;
Inhales and exhales
Of warm breath, against frosted air.

Between the Lines

I try to read between your lines,
And follow them as
They shape into loops and hooks,
Until I am a lost soul,
Wandering in your contradictions.

Do you hear the sound of your voice,
As you try to piece the words,
Lines, and phrases you've heard
Together,
Like a riddle gone madly wrong?

"Love should be...."
You try to clarify,
As if you do not already know.

The irony--
Is not lost on me.
The way you try to tell me
What love should be
According to teen magazines,
Episodes of Oprah,
And the ambivalent voices,
Of failed and failing relationships.

And as you fumble for fragments of quotes,
I sit along the opposite end of your bed,
With you spouting on and on,
About your so called "definition"
Of an ideal love.

And I,
I am drowning out your droning,
Strolling through my memories,
Where Love is not defined as anything,
But instances of us,
Laying gently upon a checkered blanket,
Fingers interlocked together,
Woven like the baskets by our ankles,
In an all too ideal patch of shade,
Underneath the Summer's gaze.

But then you ask me,
Waking me from my episode:
"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
With little strains against your voice
As you try to rationalize the irrational.
And I just nod non complacently,
Drifting away in my thoughts of you,
while you flare up again
At my lack of attention,
To your attempts to annotate
What our love should be.