Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Wounded Love’s Sonnet


I’m not accustomed to love, not this kind.
Time shrinks when you’re here, billows when you’re gone.
Our heart-songs withheld, and contracts unsigned.
But here you are. I kiss you every dawn.
There was a time when we took a shower
to wash the camp-fire soot from our skin?
Through din I heard, as dark shines on phosphor,
through echoes, a fan, (your voice held within)
“I love you,” you said through calloused fingers,
You touched slick skin, and scars that won’t be soaped.
The soot is gone, but the smell, it lingers.
We both pay doubt deposits of our hope.
I didn’t mean to, your heart overhear.
So, while waiting for disaster, I’ll keep you dear.


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