Sunday, September 1, 2013

The Thing I Wrote Because the Play Started Late

Waiting for (more?) him,
tapping your fingers to old joy,
you are rhythm and patience
and excitement unheard of.

He comes back but he won't hold you tonight
and I just don't understand why-

Why he's holding your hand before the curtain rises
like it's a cheap, half-empty wineglass;
Why he's holding you just barely and so incompletely;
Why he's holding you like he doesn't know you're going to save him;
Why he isn't holding you as desperately
as recklessly
as I would.

Mahal, it breaks my heart to see yours so unloved.

The only thing I want to say is:
He is too lucky to have you.

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