On The Sill Again

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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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