In the Fork

In the Fork

In the fork of hope and doubt and I think I will carry out a faith in you

To show me a sign at your own pace for love is not an object to take

To pick up off an end table and stash in a pocket along with keys or a driver’s license

More of a latitude granted in wrapping paper

Prepared in a center of thought distant from the receiver

And then presented in an unknown hour outside of any schedule

But provided in a time of superimposing all other priorities

Of daily events, thoughts or actions to relay in a matter of necessity

As if the body will cease to function without the release of that which has become now mandatory for its continued existence in this universe

And absent this prioritization all other communication is contrary

And miniscule and forcing or requesting such transactions of measured meaning

Are an impossibility that contradicts the inherent value of all that is contained

In such gifts of humanity bare and honest in their nature

To even attempt such indulgence of requests is to impale a taint

Upon that which you hope to achieve that once smeared in

Will forever make it moot and muted to neither convey, speak, or sing

The language of arias you hope to hear in the deepest parts of ones self

I have sensed trepidation in her footsteps pacing around my words

From her seesaw of enigma responses of wanting to know, yet unwilling

To share further or initiate that which would proliferate the overlap

Of my world into hers without my direct assistance

And in this distance she can maintain emotional stability to overcome any

Undertows of rejections in protection of all that she has known, yet holds within

The hull of shipwrecked shorelines and headlines of old newspapers

Scrapped in shoe boxes in an attic of happy and tragic and the palettes

That I have yet to see her utilize to paint this portrait

And so I wait in dislocated patient states of wanting yet knowing

That if I am to pull this rope it will slide out her hands

Fumbling to the ground and if she has not professed the will to pick it back up

Without my prompt than there is really nothing there warranting my want

For in duality is there only the vitality for those words to ever survive incubation

Inside the warmth of days of opening doors, flowers, and dinners for two

Cards scripted in her name and all of this falls lame with out her want

And decision to end this oblivion of unknowns and choose a fork in her own road.