I can’t wait or hold my interest
like sand and secrets,
but if I can
choke through this doubtful gap
I’m sure I could reach him,
that knowing part of me that won’t wait up.

We meet sometimes,
when I’m fearful enough of falling
to scramble me,
grasping for a cloud to catch,
living together between poems.

Trust me,
I haven’t kept a secret
or a promise to myself since we bought the house.
The walls are still bare. I know
if I can live with myself again
I’ll always have another chance—
but what if he leaves,
and takes all my art with him?

07/07/2019

Posted on 07/07/2019
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