If I Could Play the Harp, I Would Serenade You Home

I can see through this melancholy window, watching the ripples;
as rain pitter-patters like soft touches wishing you home.

When I sit long enough for the sky to turn black, sun hiding
behind a blue November moon, I can almost hear your laughter;

such a sweet sound sighing in chords too faint to measure.

I have screamed your name from mountains to no avail
when you were right here waiting for my whisper so you can sleep,
like the angel you are, unencumbered and free to fly.



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