my Sunday morning window’s gray with ticking ages,
the cool mist of the season nearing.
Each cell and promise chilled down to the marrow,
turning to ice in me when you only deserved warmth.
I can barely endure building it for you,
the bonfires telling the truth to
every intricate shadow but my own,
the violent flickering like swirling spirits
constantly joining and letting go.
The amber and orange glows will cover me here each night,
but it’s the sound of your voice that will softly carry me
through this night and many more
As you sleep and the electricity in your touch
might be enough to finally wake me up.
These spirits have burrowed inside,
have dwelled here for far too long,
they’re exchanged vows and cracked enveloped,
they’re the pages folded inside,
the ink we shaped telling each other what we
could never say to anyone else.
I close the curtains and put out each lamp,
my Sunday morning window’s gray with autumn’s touch,
a season’s first teasing kiss.
Each stopped clock and motionless engine needs to start turning,
screaming to life again because I’ve been asleep through too much of you.
I can keep these fires inside us to tell you the truth
of every dark corner and curve of my heart.
The glow of these fleeing spirits will cover us for the last time
and carry our shadows with them as you lay your head on me
and the gentle warm lock of my arms around you
will be enough to help you sleep.
These spirits reach for the sky’s final unseen gates,
they’re echoes and venoms,
they’re undone histories,
the mementos we built and inscribed then locked away
because our hands said what we didn’t know how to exchange yet.
I close each curtain and keep your near,
my Sunday morning window’s gray with the coming season’s mist,
the only remaining spirits now are the spaces of seconds
when our eyes meet as we finally wake up,
they are the connected constellations
carrying us off together to whatever is meant for us next.
