I’m a vine trimmer.

Like Jesus in the Bible, baby, I wanna find what works
And what doesn’t. We worry that we don’t have a love
That bears divine fruit; sweet juice that drips from the pear we
Sunk our teeth into that first night still stains my lips and I know it still stains
Yours too because we were
In the Garden of Eden and tulips were touching. And I never wanted to let go.
But putting Adam and Eve to shame everyday takes a lot out of the initial energy
We thought we had at the starting line of time.
Maybe we’re stuck in the midst of that
phase where falling for the glittery

pitfalls the devil lays out like
self-doubt
distrust
wandering eyes
wavering hope
are all we can see

and the promised land we staked a claim for seems like fairytale nonsense. but.
We don’t have to be just another chapter in the book of romantic tomfoolery, or just another
piece of the puzzle that fate seems to make a picture out of; the kind that screams “hey this is
not how it had to be.” I don’t know any

other way to make you see what I mean except to tell you this. When you let go of a balloon,
with it’s perfect roundness, and its

perfect colors, and its

perfect fragile little string, you lose something

more than just the apple of your childlike eye. You lose the comfort in knowing that the object of your affection won’t just fly away, to something bigger and better and into the vast vista that is the sky, becoming smaller and smaller, not just in your line of vision but in its meaning, and, and-

It scares me to think that your eyes may just be the mere string I let go of; the delicious pear that I let ferment and go to waste but could have reveled in and consumed and have let my signature be left on forever.

Forever. It may be a

Scary word, but it’s the only word we should be allowed to think of and let

define ourselves each time we look at eachother.

I love you.