So many, so much

At last, at the end of a week full of promises kept, part of a day together.

We had so much to tell each other, so much to explore and investigate, so much to examine after days and nights apart, I didn’t even get around to reading for her this poem that I wanted to read,

even just this part of it:

You are who I love, writing letters, calling the senators, you who, with the seconds of 
your body (with your time here), arrive on buses, on trains, in cars, by foot to stand in 
the January streets against the cool and brutal offices, saying: YOUR CRUELTY 
DOES NOT SPEAK FOR ME

You are who I love, you struggling to see

You struggling to love or find a question

You better than me, you kinder and so blistering with anger, you are who I love, 
standing in the wind, salvaging the umbrellas, graduating from school, wearing holes 
in your shoes 

(the entire miraculous poem, by Aracelis Girmay, who clearly understands how very much there is to love, is here). 

There wasn’t time for all I wanted to hear, for all I wanted to say, and now I’m back at my place and tomorrow we have more promises to keep and Tuesday also. There are so many, so much, to love. Who has enough time for all this loving? Not us.