writing left handed

Tonight as I lie here in your bed without you, I’ve decided, wide eyed, to write a poem about you.  You laugh and the world laughs with you.  You cry and the surroundings fall silent and hush to conform.  You smile and light wraps itself around you.  You try to lie, but look down at the ground and give away your call.  That tell of an honest heart, of a lovely warmth that dares to be scared, and hide inside.  Bubbling over with a rich energy that seeks, and procrastinates, and hesitates sometimes.  Yet giggles and jumps, and dances and sings at other times.  I sometimes forget what I can miss.  I often miss the mark while trying to draw again.  We hurl birds through the air without a care and laugh as the world crumbles around us.  Help me rebuild the castle and open doors that were once locked windows.  Belief can be sharp.  Passion can be tangled and intertwined.  Trust can be golden.  Laughter can be infectious.  Eyes can lift an entire body without the presence of touch besides the gentle squeezing of a heart until it speaks the tongue it thought it forgot how to use.  A muse and a chief.  A relief from abuse.  A thief in the night asks us to choose.  Win or lose we are here now, and nothing in the past can be changed.  I am estranged from versions of myself I once knew well.  They vie for your attention at the ball.  Dance with all of them, but choose to leave the party with the gentlest and calmest of the bunch.  I have a hunch you might just be glad that you did.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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