Sara E. Lamers

Proof:  A Love Story

Let x and y be real people. See them in action, let them try
to resist cliché and stay upright, keep their heads, their wits about them.

Let them fend for themselves. If love is a subset of mortality then let
their skin be drastically pleasing, let the decades spill beyond infinity. Or infamy.

Whichever comes first. Let them forgive one another their sullen moods, their selfish
tendencies, swollen pride, past-due bills, un-mown lawn, hair in drains of sinks.

If they forget one another, so be it. Years go that way. One of them could
be a wallflower at heart, hesitant by design, timid to a fault. Leave it alone,

to chance. Let the other be cloaked in sequins, fur, leather pumps and bangle bracelets.
Let her be both be all and end all. Let her know no limit like June days when they lengthen,

a sine-curve rushing toward solstice, the moon hanging back later, then later still. Let them
delight in damaged things: shattered glass, their burnt dinner. Be not afraid.

Let them adopt a trick or two from the natural world. Such as the seahorse
who tempts mates by changing color, weaving crooked arcs in the swell of the waves.

 

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