You Him
With You I wake with crust in my eyes
unable to unjust my sight
Disheveled and torn
can't put a comb through my hair
because you tangled and sweated in my roots
my jeans kicked under the bed
and I couldn't find my left shoe,
but my stuff really didn’t’ matter to you anyway.
With Him I wake with the sun
able to see the light in his smile, for it knows me
he combs his fingers through my hair
each strand falling adjacent to him
his room is peace
and my clothes folded away in his space
I think I’ll choose Him
And You can go away.
Copyright © Nora Gibson | Year Posted 2020
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment