Joyelle Osburn Poet I do not know?

Untitled 2

these walls were not
painted with your face
nor have your trembling
hands or fingers
traced the cracks,
that over time,
led you here
where, out broken windows,
you sang in the wind-
like the willows
and the bluebells.

with a clenched soul,
I watch you suffer-
pieces of your wars
burn like ash
between my hands
and I'm not scared-
for it is here,
in this corridor,
that I love you.

though dark rooms
and broken candlesticks
fill our lives,
we'll rise in the morning
with laughter,
our half-hour love,
and a whiskey bottle
full of everything
that makes me want
to be with you.

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