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Poem

Sometimes late at night, I dream of you,
Your soft touch, how your love caressed me
until all the noise, all the uncertainty would vanish.
The slow thump of your heart would be all that I heard,
 a holy rhythm that rocked me to safety.
 
As my voice falters into only a croak of desperation
I can still feel the way you would trace my arm.
From freckle to freckle you memorized me,
a cartographer of my smallest truths:
I furrow my brow in concentration,
I rub my feet together in anxiety.
 
I had spoken about my mother,
but you held my broken soul in your hands,
staring at it while everyone else just nodded.
 
As I lay here trapped inside these
stark walls that gleam sterile and cold,
I am not thinking about the memories
whose alcoholic scent would burn my nose.
I lay here thinking about you.
 
I lived a life of laughter and soft mornings,
the clinking of glasses, the rustle of turning pages,
the swell of music carrying me through every chapter.
I stitched joy into the seams of my days,
waking up to a child's carefree laughter,
or the bloom of spring's first daffodil.

Now I imagine the warmth of sunlit grass beneath my feet,
your calloused hand slowly tracing my thumb,
the smell of wild honey carried by a summer breeze,
talking about the way the trees tickle our souls.
For you are the only one who sees the way
the earth sighs when kissed by falling rain.

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