as i write this, i am sitting out on my porch
lights strung up high, stars sparkling bright
and bundled in blanket and coat.
a cup of hot chocolate
sits steaming on the garden table next to me
as a cold eastern wind rustles my hair
and the leaves
in the oaks.
you came to me like a thief in the night
but how could you steal
what i so willingly gave away?
staring up at the night sky
and seeing the moon in gibbous
saddens me. i wonder
if you will still think of me.
my writing is drenched
with the honey in your eyes
and the sweet sunflowers
of your hair.
i dream of you, you know that?
every night since you left,
in some way or another,
i find you there. and it breaks my heart
to hold you tight in my dreams
and to wake to a cold, lonely bed.
there is no escaping pain,
of this i’ve learned a great deal.
you were one weight i never wanted to carry
and now, well,
now i sit here, in my rocking chair,
praying for the impossible;
a miracle, even.
as the moon moves past the trees
and into the horizon
i allow silent tears
to fall onto this page.
i cannot think of a story more tragic
than one where the chapter we so desperately wanted to write
must exist as unopened pages
in the silent libraries
of our hearts.