jot down streams of consciousness

Baby, all our souls hail from small towns
that God made somewhere up in the heavens.
He summoned Norman Rockwell to paint in the outlines
of your homely jawline, but there is nothing
but beauty in the worn-down, farmer's tan
body build that He carved out of perseverance.

(Your diction is amazing.
You could change my descriptive word choice
in a second from "stubborn" to "determined".)

Sometimes, I find myself terrified to ponder
the concept of eternity and the Holy Trinity
when I trace the lines God carved so deeply
into your trembling hands (you always told me
how nervous being around me made you.)

I remember the night we ran out all the way to nowhere
so you could take me "real stargazing". You mocked me
for being a country girl, and promised me the moon.
Next time, you said, we'd need to go when it had waned
so you could paint the night sky better
in my star struck irises, but much like eternity,
next time has not quite come yet. I retain hope
in your ability to keep your word like time;
since punctuality was always the middle name
you inscribed right next to "Owen" so proudly.
It's one of the few things you can call your own
that your parents didn't forcibly shape, but even so,
I can still see the remnants of their pedagogy.

The first time we broke out of your monotony,
we dared ourselves to climb the fire escape
all the way up to God's front doorstep.
I reached up for your hand in good faith,
and you grasped my fingers between yours
and kissed the tips so I could always remember
how it felt to be loved by you.

and baby, I still find myself nostalgic.