Snow Falling on November 11th

The smoke is clearing away from your front porch.

That door I’ve never seen before probably looks exactly like all the others,

but it’s the pathway to an unknown fate that beckons every day.

I’m stripped in an open field waving a white flag, defenses lowered:

The war has found an end.

The war is coming to a close.

Your lips crave for a holiday,

but your eyes remind mine of the tricks I play;

pretending I’m more whole than the inside displays.

Still I knocked gently on your heart’s door,

caressing the glass contents that shuddered at any shake,

quivered in a cold wind blowing by,

and slid to a covert cabinet when a stranger reached in.

Even with history in my stride I recited my best behavior,

yet froze in the chill emitted from an arctic smile.

Trying to start a fire while drifting underwater;

matches soaking wet, but it’s not much farther

until the caps melt off and the core speaks beneath.

Why do I have to sing whenever you look at me?

Why does every hair stand at attention whenever you’re near me?

A beating attraction proves flexible when sense is throwing obstacles,

willing to bend to nothing for the hope it transitions to love.

Hoping for a glacier to thaw in a frigid winter.

Last night I put my heart to rest and found you at your best,

dressed in the natural beauty of your smooth skin and hair.

It was as if you knew the surrender was always an inevitable.

Counting casualties on the battlefield,

praying that I’m on the winning side,

keeping those lingering doubts deep beneath the rising tide,

leaving space inside so every moment we get I’ll forever keep,

even when I know it means nothing to you or me.

But those little nothings are as alive as any love,

whether true or not; there’s no difference to me.

Even when the night ended and we left without a word,

the numbers fell in my favor.

That’s the story I’ll tell the mothers at home—

the ones breaking through my telephone lines.

We threw it all at a brick wall and watched it break,

only to pass on taking the blame.

The boys won’t be going home.

The boys won’t be going home.

I took a chance and two and by week’s end I’ll take three.

There’s no stopping joyful insanity.

The boys won’t be going home.

The boys won’t be going home.

I’ll keep the white flag up at night,

above the trenches,

high above our fears,

with the vague hope that one day you’ll emerge from you nest.

I’ll keep going until you relent.

There’s no way you’ll fall out of my head.

( ❤ Mitch)

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