Here’s what I love about my life…
You.
Yeah, you. You’re reading me, no?
Reading my insides and outsides and my here’s and there’s and so much more.
My why’s and who’s and me’s and them’s and rantings galore…
Thank you for your interest and curiosity. Your comments and animosity. It all is a matter to me. It all does matter to me. Matters, ARE me.
{Uh-oh. I feel a lame-assed ice hockey analogy approaching. You know, Canada’s game? The game from where Gretzgy defected to the You Ess Eh?}
I skate sometimes, on the thin side of the ice. I skate sometimes, too close to your margins. Yeah, I do.
Icing means this; The puck crosses your opponents’ blue line without you touching it with your stick.
I’m a blue line crosser all the way.
I don’t mean to offend. Stiill, it’s my stick that I wield.
Curved and angled. Just like my field.
I can easily shoot my puck at what’s wrong with you. The inner/outer of you, the beginning and end of you.
The where I start and where you finish.
The bundle up, you musn’t be chilled, you.
Where’s me? Get a grip. I’m here.
I’m here. You can see me, you do feel me. I know you are in me.
I’m eternally burdened it seems, with our places in this Stanley Cup race.
I WANT that silver glory. Don’t you?
I LIVE for raising that goblet overhead.
I NEED to be recognized. You too?
I can’t hurt you to get mine, though. I can’t. Despite the fact that hip checking is an integral part of ice hockey. So keep telling me when I’m icing your puck, ok?
I can’t love my life without you, the lives that love me.
You’re what I need.
You’re the words that free.
You slam the puck into the crease that’s Dee.
Love IS icing, crossing the blue line, enticing.
Stay with me now.
I’m faking a Gordie Howe.