She loves my old bones,
for some reason,
the rigid skeleton under
my skin,
fits her eye,
and I’m not complaining.
The dust of my past,
means little to her,
just part of my road weary
charms and meaningless
philosophies to amuse,
and delight.
She is entertained,
enamored and beguiled,
by this sack of blood and bones,
holding up a noggin’ full of
nonsense, history and meandering
stories with a general humor.
This bag of meat, held together
by
all the strangest of sinews, is
loved and there’s a strange pumping
beneath my snarling ribcage,
a familiar beat, but a new
rhythm.
So I’ll marry her,
and we’ll dance to
it.
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