As if she were always there
somehow etched within every
As if holding her hand
were some natural discourse
of heaven leading to absolution.
Her eyes seemed soft green
familiar…as if my cold broken will
were hers to mend all along…
Her skin was more aware
than any conversation I knew alone
as if holding her in my arms
spelled a language long forgotten.
Her voice rebuilt faith on minor syllables
as if every whisper I’d ever known
deafened with brilliant clarity.
Her tenor spoke
with liquid water songs
meant for my heart’s parched lips.
Within her gaze…hell cowered
opening wide in the night.
In the darkness of waking hours
I breach the wasteland of empty air
…the weight of a gone silhouette
chokes the sanctity of sleep away.