Wednesday, March 18, 2015

would be to say

to say that memories did not flicker
in my soul, like burning candles
low-lit, wavering with the unseen
soft sigh of affection
would be to say
that the sky was not blue
and the salt did not sting
on the open wound, gentle
the soothing hand, quiet
the unspoken, understood
and the last place i
touched you, elbow
to the palm still
waits to be
illuminated again.