April 19
I’m waiting again, quietly,
Hiding behind the pillars of faith,
The crumbling rock on which Moses stood.
It’s not the same, of course,
But it brings the comfort of the ages,
And perhaps a couple more.
It was an age of wonder, only moments past,
When your lips parted, and breath ceased
for the masses, only belonging to you.
You whispered, softly, against my cheek
And I crumbled, as trembling rocks do,
“All I have is you.”
The memory stopped, your light faded,
And I sit and cower, one more sheep
For the shepherd to lose.
April 20
The eyelash on the teardrop,
I watched it melt into liquid
And wondered, as philosophers do,
Why.
April 21
it is yours, always yours,
This notion of something more.
Even the sound of it crackles with you, Love.
Pulsing with the feeling of your hair against my neck,
Your lips on my nose and the cold nudge of your toes.
But it breaks easily, your Love, against the curve of breath,
Buffering and shuddering until there’s nothing left.
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