all of my age,
illuminated
by the burn left at our hearth side.
I’m wrapped in your favorite quilt,
and there’s tea for you on the stove,
if, dear, you make it home tonight.
Your voice hasn’t pigeoned.
the birds have packed and flown south.
but i’m waiting with my bags
incase, love, you come around.
There’s a certain sorrow in an empty doorway,
that holds the memory
of you coming home happy.
I’ll wear my finest smile,
when i hear your key turn in the door,
but your eyes
are only ever looking through me.
You leave your boots at the door,
and my heart in their sole.
Where did all
the incandescence go?
You’re so tired of my pedantry.
catching your death
on the mess that you made me.
I take all the worry to bed.
Our wedding song plays in my head,
but you sigh as i reach
to hold your hand.
“not tonight,-“
“then when?”
…
Our sunroom windows
are veiled in a permafrost now.
Those perennial petals
perish on your vows,
and i’ve become a wick-less candle
to a frost weathered spouse.
your tungsten promise
is barbed by the wires of conviction.
Your lips pull from mine
like some silent eviction.
There was once an evergreen
with our initials in it.
(ending not done yet)