Elbows

A poem about becoming friends with a lover that was always lost to you.

ELBOWS
His hands are black with dirt.
His smile light as sun.
Inevitably, i warm inside
just being near
him once again.
We fall into place
as if the insidious miles
had not forsaken us.
Yet this time
is not to be repeated
By simple mistakes
Or fragile hope -
Even the strong possibility...
We merely sit at the wooden square
holding hands and praying grace,
vessels wanting for something even more
wonderful.
I am up to my elbows
in honeydew and deviled eggs,
seeing something new about myself,
as frail as beautiful as a butterfly wing -
about him,
as strong as true as the rooted green of Spring -
knowing why i am not crying,
that he will leave again,
and i will continue to stay.