Potato Soup

It all began with dragons
and lost love
along the muddy river banks.
Like so many other things,
it was never intended to be
what it became.
The soothing touch
of hand
and tongue,
the warming comfort
of word
and thigh.
Knowing isolation
does not mean being alone,
and that all hearts heal
when care is given.
A voice in the smoke
of a burning past,
sweet whispers in the darkness
calling me to light,
to a new beginning
where the past becomes a lesson
with no power over the future.
Dragons become memories
as we walk along the river
where you once stood before me,
where we once held hands
and passed a bottle between us,
where our lips first touched
and I knew I could not stop.
Seasons change
as we travel well worn paths
to hold one another,
if only for a night,
one night to feel, without restraint
and to love, without fear.
We write in our book,
stories entwined
as the words darken white pages,
bringing life to what was dead,
chapters have been outlined
though words are unwritten
and distance is a task
that we can overcome.
As time stands to mark the moments,
we hold the memories close,
and dare not let them go.

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