This morning, born
like all other mornings
was different; I held her
Our tired, sleep-dusty bodies
leaned against one another
like old homes.
On this morning, I whispered
into her neck - Every morning
should begin like this, in each
others arms, my lips on your
warm collar bone, we steepled
together against the moments
we are forced apart.
I whispered kisses onto her skin
felt the ache of another day
outside of my arms push
against my lips.
She stayed silent drawing me
close, repeating 'Every day should
begin like this' with her arms, draping
them across my whip-scarred back.
She traces incantations against despair
with her fingers, scratching through
tired morning fog to reach my scalp and
sign my thoughts, binding them to her.
Every day should begin like this,
steeled against the great injustice
of morning, of the exile from forever
in your embrace. Instead most
days bloom and wilt unnoticed, tastes
unremembered through the hazy gaze
of memory. But I am thankful, that our
last days lay far ahead, around a wooded
bend and out of sight. There is still time to
stamp our hard mark on each day, each
morning in each other's arms a monument,
a flower bloomed and touched.
Each day should begin like this.
My prayers are that most will.
I love you, today, yesterday, and tomorrow, but especially right now, which never leaves and was always here...
Benticore
Out
2 comments:
I have spent all day trying to find the right words to say how much I enjoy your writing and how much this poems touches me- funny how yesterday at dinner you had just said how far from poetry you were- this is a beautiful peice - I really like the lines about
scratching through tired morning fog
to reach my scalp and sign my thoughts,
binding them to her
ummm... what are you doing tonight?
This is an amazing piece...amazing imagery. Keep on writing. Beautiful.
Post a Comment