I wish I had written this:



before the dark
is pulled away –
a shelf of memories
is fastened to the wanting
of my soul
with dishes I was saving
linens I adore
they way they feel
as secrets
not yet told

awake the dawn
where sunday grieved
a path already gone
dusted by the leaving –
folded into vine
some memory
of almost was
I can scarce recall
the way your hands
became the same
as mine

. . .

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