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Crazy-In-Love Story
Crazy-In-Love Story

Crazy-In-Love Story

FatherSmithFather Lawrence C. Smith

Crazy-In-Love Story

“I loves You!”
in letters 12-feet high,
sporting bright pink
ink, with baroque
flourishes (something
like trills and grace
notes off a page
by J.S. Bach)
adorned the black-and-
red silo next to
County Road B-4.
Delightfully, the bold
penmanship was impeccable.

You, seeing the effulgence
of both sentiment
and expression, glowed
her joy in glorious
dainties, spelling
“You loves I, too!”
across a ten-foot
angel-food cake, glazed
in sugary greens.
I and You fed
scrumptious slices
to one another.
They flossed together
afterwards (both
being D.’s D.S.).

Married at last (proposal
on one knee, “Marry me,
You?” “Yes, I. Yes!”
Acceptance so dear.
Rite and solemnity at Our
Lady of the Holy Rosary,
“Forever yours, You, is I,” and
“Ever and ever, I, You is yours.”
Vows composed between flossings,
drillings, and root canals.

Off to Tahiti for fun,
sun, and consummation --
the Islands less beautiful
than two virgins conjugally
joined. Marital bliss begun
amidst an Innocence
twice-blessed). On the first
of May, he and she became
Mr. and Mrs. We. Now a new
life quietly awaiting
new life from within
the womb of their Affection
(not to mention You’s
swelling abdomen,
the growth of growth
where brightly burgeons
tomorrow’s dawning).

Down the years You kissed
I, who was kissed and kissed
her back -- on the lips,
nose, thumbs, heart and soul.
Ours, their child and joy,
grew loving the love
You gave I gave You.
Hearth and Home, tears
and mirth, or tears of mirth
enlivened by the Family
as Monday by a warm
shower and hot coffee --
which, by the way, they
every day savored,
the smell and taste of morn.

“I misses You,”
he wept. “I loves You,”
and more sobs flowed ‘round
the hollow house You had graced.
“I wants You back,”
tho’ he knew that Death
is unmoved by grief,
no matter how bright
pink -- or green -- any love
might have been.
Still, even Death
would lose his vicious teeth,
at least a few,
when faced with a Romance
five-layered, multi/parti-
colored, and ten-foot-
encircled, confected
by the Drs. We, D.’s D.S.

Eventually, a winter
comes, the silo is faded,
the cake only crumbs,
the practice sold to strangers.
Ours has answered his call
and entered the monastery.
Little is left of the Family
We. Built on loving Whimsy,
fanciful Passion, and good
oral hygiene, We
has loved and gone.
Memories and monuments
are rare and undesired.
What remains is an earth,
a world, a universe
where another I,
some different You,
will meet, fall in, share
and make loves and tales
taller than silos, sweeter
than icing, and cavity-free.

Author Notes: No rules of grammar were harmed in the writing of this verse!

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About The Author
Father Lawrence C. Smith
About This Story
28 Apr, 2018
Read Time
2 mins
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