“We are the bruise that love left behind; we are 
               not the pain itself—but the mark that remains”
                                                            
                                                                 — from my poem
                                                                    from your prompt 
                                                                                  June  2026

You’ve been here before—
or somewhere so like here
the similarity is striking
the unfamiliar to clarity.

                                                “Keep being the amazing man
                                                 you are, strong in faith & love.”

One of many notes, left
behind and within your Bible,
when you’d left it there
with her.  The surprise,
mid-service, weeks later,
when you all went searching
for God’s word, that week,
but found hers secreted
between pages.

                                                “This verse reminds me of you—
                                                 strong and courageous and a light
                                                      in my life.” 

There is darkness within
and all about, but inside
uplights are charging
for the wedding you’ll entertain
tonight.  Their indicators are
still red, no green to signal
time to go, and you wonder
how they’ll be ready in time.
How can they be ready
in time?                                                                                               

                                                “Remember you are His masterpiece,
                                                 made for great things. 
                                                 Never forget…”

but right now, you don’t feel
great, don’t feel a masterpiece,
can’t see how things have come
to be what they seem to have come
to be, can’t see the way back…

                                                 “Love not only finds a way, it creates
                                                  a path if there isn’t one there…”

but you do see breadcrumbs.  These
breadcrumbs.  A list poem written
on your heart:  The one
crimson earring you wrote
into poetry days ago.  The scar
on your ankle of mystery
origin, baptized in the water
of caves under Jamaica, cauterized
reminder of hard lessons learned
there.  Here is the sweatshirt
beside your pillow, breathing
cinnamon of her scent.  The dreams,
the words, the visions, of so many
besides you and her.  The songs
she wrote, sang, recorded, sent.
The ring you entrusted to her sister,
trying to give it away, take it
from your sight, until it was right,
until it was okay to admit
you already knew. 

                                              “God’s promises are like the anchor
                                                in the storm—unshakable and true.”

This is a storm.  You remember
last year’s storm, this same time
of year, Lexington Poetry Month
like a time capsule, every year,
reminding of another time,
another place, another patio
where you wrote words of hope
and a future that didn’t come
yet—and the storm that followed
and the storm that gathers,
mounts up like thunderheads
in the arid moment of now.  

And you’ve been here, before–
or somewhere so like here
the similarity is striking
the unfamiliar into clarity.

                                                “Before we meet again, share one
                                                 thing you have learned about
                                                 God’s love, and how it has impacted
                                                 you.  Bonus points
                                                                                   if it’s about us.” 

But this time is different;
you have been here before,
but those were the ends
of stories.  And you knew
it was the end of the story.

This time is different;
you’ve never been here
before:  This cannot be
the end of the story.  Will not
be the end of this story.

To answer her, then, back then,
when she knew, when
she believed.  Him
and you.

His love doesn’t go.
Yours hasn’t, doesn’t
go.  He waits and will
wait.   

            And so will I.

Because it was always

about

us.