My Valentine

My being aches with his pulse.
His flawless character is
combined with a desire to live
in a human being made up of flaws.
In a human being like me.
Humility draped over a couch
wrought from years of neglect and abandonment
patiently waits,
for someone to sit on his cushions once again.
I open the heavy metal door
and hear it creak like nails on a blackboard.
Its rectangular shape is cold against my pale and petite body.
The wind that blows through the trees
is the same wind that slams this door closed.
Is this a protection of sorts, from the world that lies behind and the one that awaits?
I journey down a wooden floor laden with petals of pink and red and blush.
Colors in an otherwise colorless world.
An artists true pallete.
My faded Nike sneakers pick up the dust inside in the walls of my own heart,
as the candelight casts shadows on the figure that sits
in front of me.
Eyes of pain and sorrow
interlock with eyes of childlike wonder.
The vase of healing stands at rapt attention in
the center of our small table.
I am a butterfly caught in the net of his fragile and vulnerable embrace.
He accepts me for who I am,
my identity is found in him alone.
I'm in awe that such a man would pick
such a girl like me.
So, instead of a heart shaped Russell Stover's chocolate box,
or a dozen roses standing next to babies breath,
or a balloon in the shape of my blood pumping muscle,
He gives me the promise of eternal life
always and forever,
in a field of zinnias.


(Copyright January 12, 2012 - Alex Puleo)