We fell in love eight years ago. You took my hand on Sterling road. Wrote you a song to a cowboys tune: my darling shining just like the moon. We were still so young thinking of then, many ways we've changed, many ways the same. As we grew up hand in hand you became a part of who I am.
I remember in my childhood home there was a corner we ignored. Little black spots on the basement floor at the end of the corridor.
I swear I smell that mold again. It's in the kitchen and in the den. I look in every nook for it's origin but can't find the source of that carcinogen.
Last night you said, "Love what is wrong? I know you've been busy but is it something more?" And when I couldn't answer we just stared at the floor.
It's the feeling in my feet, it's the stiffness of the sheets.
Is this just complacency? I know that you've been good to me. But I'm not satisfied. The same old rhythms the same old rhymes. The same old picking every time. The same old love songs on my mind. I'm not satisfied.