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my love, or my need of it,
came tapping its fingers
on my windowpane
in the form of raindrops.
They made contact
with the tempered glass
like the pebbles Romeo
threw into Juliet’s balcony,
entering the softly lit
sanctuary of my privacy
intent on uniting with it
as the incongruous element
that makes any
state of restlessness
more entitled to exist.

I’ve been lying in wait
for somebody to
scale that wall.
Like Sleeping Beauty
your kiss, or my memory of it,
brought me to the surface
of the dead still lake
I’ve been sinking in
with only my
gagged nightmares
floundering and flailing.
We talked about second chances.
We both had opinions about it.
And I covered with my hand
the beating heart of your
or the cost of it,
and asked you how much time
you still had before your fear
overran everything, including
your capacity to believe
that you are worthy
of the loving you’ve been
saving for the next one.
And I told you maybe
there’s still enough time
for one try and you
might like to spend
faith’s crunch time
on me.

And I told you I was scared too
that the best version of me
might have already passed and
I would have to
love the next one
with what’s left.
And you took my nakedness,
or my fear of it,
and covered it
with your own

and held me.
And the night passed that way:
with our pasts
held at bay
outside of our touch.
I told you
I want to love you
and a hush
descended in
the improving darkness,
such that we haven’t
heard in a long time.

untitled photo from the image bookmarking site, Pinterest


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