Thursday, July 9, 2009


The shoelaces that join our feet are longer than the summer days of our childhood,
when I would wear that ragged costume of Peter Pan and you'd be Wonderwoman.
When we'd fight the phantom crime of imagination, and never grow up doing it.
When kissing came long after Crayola, skinned knees and multiplication,
after spelling bees, climbing trees and the longest games of hide and seek I can remember,
the ones that go and go until we all come out to find you, "It",
asleep in a field, with a butterfly in one hand and the moon tattooed on your dreams.

Those shoelaces are long, longer than four years of college in another province, in another world,
the shoelaces that join our feet are longer than the names I gave to you.
Longer than the riddles your grandfather knew, longer than ten minutes of silence at eight years old.

The shoelaces that joined our feet have worn, frayed, faded.
Now I want to replace them with a wedding ring.

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