Thursday, January 14, 2010

DOORSTEP: poetry

A long- awaited moment of eye contact, in a place pretty far north of here. Where it was fucking cold.


Do you expect me not to know you?

Do you expect me not to run my fingers through your hair?

Do you expect me not to grasp and hold on tight, when the wind whips my hair, and the cold shivers my skin?

There are no words spoken, just an embrace.

No words are needed.

The silence speaks volumes, as it always has.

Words are just clich├ęs, as is this.

My bones are old and tired, but I feel so much stronger here,

even in this strange place, because I hear your laugh and I see the brightness in

your eyes.

After all this time, you are still pleased to see me.

December 2008, home, but not My Home.