The sun has fingered my skin
every morning for so long,
played along every flutter of
protesting eyelids,
in the slither through dusty
shades and sheer curtains.
The flush of flesh feels foreign
today more than yesterday.
Early moring birdsong chirps
like a ringing in my head;
and I used to savor the sound.
His limbs are no longer nested
in between the sun's fingers,
soft breath does not follow the
notes sang from tree tops,
and I feel I will drown beneath
never-ending cycles of scream.
Often I wake with head beneath
the refuge of my pillow,
trying to mute the day yawning
herself into hopeless existence;
where everything right
has a way of proving you wrong.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
If there were sainthoods for mothers and partners you would be on top of his list!!! God bless hun. Love, C
