met you in the
waiting
room,
where that big hand
never moves
and our tears don’t
run anymore
four drained
eyes
aimed at the
floor.
shadow work
like winter
storm
with little
warning
she blinded me
so gracefully..
so grateful to
be buried.
wiped a snowflake
from your
cheek,
assuming it
was wept,
but a stain of
white was
left
upon skin where
winter
bled.
tomorrow in
a bottle,
today’s washed
up on shore
to escape cold city’s
confines
on a quest for
so much
more.
harmful were
desires
born from within a
lonely place,
and acrid was
the taste
of desperation
we perspired.
all this hoping
without
moving
is like waiting out
the winter
with a grudge
draped over my shoulder,
believing it will
remedy
my distaste
for cold.
is this naked me
before
you
the soul you
wish to
see
or shall you ask
me not so
gently
to cover up
and flee?
as day creeps
to a close,
father time sheds
his skin
to reveal all
along
a slave to him
i have been.
it wasn’t the storm
behind your
eyes
but
the calm
that
disarmed,
keeping ships
from harm.
it was in feeling
your skin
brush
mine
i knew we were cut
from the same
cloth
sewn up in
different patterns,
to be admired in
youthful
wonder.
hands in the garden 
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