“How did you get to be so wise?” you said.
“By making tons of mistakes,” I replied,
“And it’s not really wisdom—just a head
That catalogues the stupid things I’ve tried
And says DON’T GO THERE.” “So: experience,”
You said, and I said: “Yes, the painful kind.
The kind with scars, the kind that builds a fence
Around my feelings, swears all roads are mined,
And tells me not to dare because I’ll die.”
“Not by my hand,” you said, and opened yours;
And even though I knew it was a lie,
For vows are nothing but disguised trapdoors,
I put my scarred and hopeful hand in his.
It was not wise, but then love never is.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells