Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
As quickly as
the rain stops, my heart
aches anew
for the sound
of your voice—
the reassurance
that I truly am
as I truly should
be this moment.
Hands over hands—a grip.
Kiss the knuckles to grasp
the meaning of love
without words.