Music opens that weak wound and I take three steps behind
pulse pulling me further back to dark corners, corneas
retracting light like fireflies between faith and a broken moon.
I felt the whisper of something wilted begging for life
in that sandwich shop in Jefferson; red memories on stairwells
and sad rain even on Saturday evening gatherings, downtown
when song takes pain from tattered souls leaving new breath
making misers into kings with only a touch of laughter
and a few scattered chords to linger on until mourning.
Take the slow train to reality because there is no colder place
than one where you cannot dream letters into sand and share words
with strangers, throwing leftover syllables over the bridge
for lovers to find and fawn over when stars are full of sky and eyes
glisten upon rippling waters wrestling waves for moon’s full attention.
Never let the tremble make it to an ache while your lashes still flutter
and his lips are calling, and close enough to touch with yours.