I’ve loved before.
That’s what lovers do.
Never the problem,
just the flue.
My heat rising
and released,
but others
closed the vent.
I self-suffocated
each ember
of chance.
Again.
And again.
But my match,
finally met.
Impervious
to my intensity,
my molten form
held so tenderly.
I still love them all
for that’s what lovers do,
but so grateful each
closed that flue.
My fire is now
oxygenated,
a type of glow
that originated
when I was finally able
to feel being held,
and the way he made me
first love
myself.
We fell,
we rose,
along the way,
grew together,
blue and white
lovemaking
constellation
flame.
Laura Denise 
Very nice prose poem.
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Thanks, Roger! 😊
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Oh, my! This is amazing, Laura!
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Thanks, Susi. I’m always a bit surprised to hear such a thing. I almost unpublished this. Just have been second guessing lately; not sure why. ❤️
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Oh, please don’t unpublish this! I was hoping to reblog it next week too. It’s wonderful! ❤
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