The Hundreth Day Out- I Wished It More
I loathe the light of breaking dawn
as it snatches my dreams of you.
Your face appeared for a moment-
Your breath- a brisk, soft wing-
the pressing of your side, I felt...then gone.
The goblet I have not rinsed,
as the last drink of wine was from your lips.
I gave you "Ann's Beautiful Daughter" in our second year,
once pink, but now dried. It died between
the pages of your favorite book.
I inhaled your perfume as I slept last night,
my drug that let me sleep on, to dream-
and as I awakened and cursed the sun
I realized it was the hundredth day, I wished it more,
for with time the world might be less grim.
I listen for your voice- in the songbirds,
the rain, the wind rushing thru leaf-gallows from trees,
but the silence is deafening. It creeps into corners
and slides down the walls, and when I call it back
the lips part to shout, but it cannot be heard.
I say your name to feel it form on my tongue-
to hear it echo a familiar ring...in the room...
down the hall- to fill a barren space.
I repeat it over and over until it sounds odd.
Then it falls from my ears and reaches up to
caress my face.
Copyright © Dana Young | Year Posted 2016
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