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On The Sill Again
hair blown back strands
stumbling awestruck, at the shift,
at the fretting color of air and light,
saturating deeper with every breath of ours,
becoming thicker with every wayside
glance I take,
sands spill, mounting aside
me splayed like confetti at a birthday party for
someone who’s yet to arrive,
and for now, while I wait my
staircase sill will suffice,
where I sit legs crossed leaning
just enough to the left so that I may not
fall,
where I will think, of the treaded yellow mornings, and
the ones in wait..
where I will consider the integrity of my scar tissue,
where the remnants of chivalry still tighten their grip,
where I will dream,
of bright sunflower tinges in afternoons and
of the shimmer her eyes hold,
hoping that this sill; that the welling smiles
of earths most brilliant hour will
continue to be
enough
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