I thought I'd write a series of posts
Of things borrowed and of things blue
About things old and about things new.
I thought I'd write our love story
My love story: that's how we met,
And fell in love, and then I thought:
Maybe... Maybe there's hope too?
I thought of French deaf women
Meeting English hearing women
Falling in love for the first time
With other women, exchanging vows too.
I thought I'd speak of all those odds:
Possible impossibilities, impossible possibilities,
Meeting on different continents, and loving too.
I thought I'd narrate our story
In the tongue that we shared, dreamt,
Made milky-way plans, that we destroyed too.
I also wanted to write us an ode,
A dedication to us, to you
But like wet earth that dries to scorching sun,
I ran out of words, of lines,
Of feelings, and of love too.
So this is the world's oldest story
Repeated heart-beat of a ballad ancient:
For I might have something borrowed,
I might have feelings blue,
But it's the same refrain, the same song
And that's nothing old and nothing new.