Thoughts on Going Home
I hope there are Mourning
Doves on the blue
Grass, tittering
Soft as silence, or
Love deferred —
Or anything akin to
What I know.
I want there to be
Light through windows,
Kisses overcast and
Somehow — sad —
I want the comforts
Of carpet and smudged
Mirrors — and the
Charms of Voices,
Not only in my
Head.
I like to think
You like to think
The Same.
Predictions
It’ll be coffee
On Monday, with the
Same thoughts — half
Asleep — beads of
Water on a mismatched
Mitten.
It’ll be nothing
On Tuesday, with the
Same aches — wide
Awake — drops of
Silent dew on mirrored
Eyes.
It’ll be coffee, again,
On Wednesday — oddly
Cheery — lines of gold
On top-shelf
Spines.
It’ll be longing
On Thursday — ever
Hopeful — faces never
There, but never
Gone.
It’ll be coffee, again
On Friday — Wide eyes,
Expectant — seeing
Everything I left
Behind.
It’ll be dreams
On Saturday — lost
In Thought — until the
Glimpses fade, for
Another
Night.
And it’ll be coffee,
Of course, on Sunday,
With the
Same thoughts — wide
Awake — beads of water
On a mismatched
Mitten.
Infinitely Ours
I swore I’d crack the cipher —
Grasp the page, unravel codes —
I dreamed myself a translator,
At night.
But every scribbled key —
Was nothing when you —
Looked at me —
Because I saw
That the answers
Were wordless,
And infinitely
Ours.