I told him,
I feel my boy
moving,
making himself
Known.
I try,
to listen
to sense,
to understand his breadth
You,
though,
were not
noticed,
heard,
sought for
when it mattered
Most.
Hot,
droplets tumbled
over
as I imagined
not seeing
Him
even if he
pushed,
looked away
or said foolish words.
Hot,
droplets tumbled over
as I imagined you
lacking language,
other than
your speaking eyes,
in emptiness
Alone.

Will you accept,
my tears?
Will he?
You leave,
with the wrinkles,
still wrinkled.
Eyes trying,
to not listen,
to not sense,
to not understand your breadth
And,
this becomes my crucible:
to noisily seek and capture,
forcing you to touch my tears
Or
to trust the love I was given
to give and gave,
and wait.

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Filed under beauty, poetry

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