Cursed INFJ, you think in metaphors,
even your crumbling cottage is one
for the love you could not hold.
Those boulders in the basement –
love, trust and respect –
foundations for marriage.
Above it four walls of rock rise,
large rocks, small rocks, mortar.
The first floor of a cottage,
to reach heaven.
reaches heaven without
the struggle of lifting boulders,
Attempt to lift a boulder alone,
and it crushes you;
lift it together, it strengthens you
even rewards you,
with strong walls,
Between the boulders we stuff
the stuff life is made of,
– stones of laughter,
gentle touches, gazes, kisses –
held together with love’s mortar,
cured with kind words,
becomes a binder
to the ivy
Now the mortar crumbles,
the stones fall out, forgotten,
as if the oak leaves,
from four summers ago,
never grew, never hung,