Second Star to the Right Straight on Till Morning or 1 Month to Go for First Year - a poem

 Platitudes are numerous.

Wind beneath my wings, lift me up to stand

on mountain tops, completing me.

We know them. You and I. They know them,

out there in world-land sipping on morning

coffee, finishing off an evening night

cap. The platitudes are many. Terms

of endearment are etched on my chest

cavity, a cheat sheet for my pumping heart

to remember them. To always know them. A positive

torture, holding my fist of red fleshes eyes wide

open, but not forcefully, in fact, my heart

has asked to be overwhelmed with: sweetheart,

baby, love, honey, sweet. These are many.

And my heart has taken to insomnia,

trying to fill in a note card with finest

print, but I've left markings on the board,

saw how desperately it wanted to get one-

hundred-percent on this pop quiz, test, short answer,

paragraphed exam. For the platitudes are many,

what we can have, build, what family will grow

within us, between us, of us. Moments of levity

throwing red shells into banana peels, laughing

over grapefruit flavored German beer, how "sloshed"

you get with one 3.4% contended bottle. But not really,

we laugh and joke, and even ones you don't like, like

cold La Croix can against exposed arm or leg. Irritation,

but then you go and do same to me. See, my platitudes

are not grand, in the crudest sense of the words,

they consist of promises to be present, to be near,

to let our hearts whisper solutions to problems to one

to other, and to figure out long-form how to solve

for X and Y. My platitudes are many, that I will never

let you purposely win at Mario Kart because you in fact

are perhaps better than I am now. My platitudes are many,

how I'll guard your heart but not possess it, not restrain it,

or control it. These many promises, of children, of puppies,

and kitties, growing up as one big family. Not nuclear,

but modern, here, and now. Not holding on to subjugations

of old timey books, and themes, old timey patriarchal tradition,

for you are human, not woman, as I am human, not man,

and as humans we are capable both of getting to mountain peaks,

lifted up on one another shoulders, strapped in to one anothers

restrains, heaving and crawling, with footholds, or by digging

deep our fingernails into jagged rock, willing to bleed and be pained

for you, but typically refusing such pathways. My platitudes

are many, are numerous, are legion, my platitude is to ensure

to you that our climb will be carefully chosen, resisting roughest

ways unless weather pushes us toward them, we will together

contemplate, and discuss, map out and plan, welcome suggestions

and decide together which routes to take, always tethered, always.

The platitudes are many, my endearments clear, oh sweet honey baby,

we've co-opted this kart to suit two.