There have been times I've been hurtful or
forgotten who you are, times I've mistaken
you for one of the dark faces I've never put to
rest. Times you've done the same. Times we've
worked out our pain or fear, using each other
as the block of wood to carve our way to truth;
feeling awful when we remember that the one
we carve is the one who has loved us through
everything.
But this is the messy art of facing things:
knocking over what I love with what
I avoid; only to learn again that
this is not of our timing.
It doesn't matter what thorns we carry
or how we squirm to avoid their pain.
We unfold as long as we love,
pried into blossom.
My love for you has outlasted my notions
of love, the way a redwood, allowed to stand
after many storms, grows from the inside,
forcing its bark to drop away.
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