The cross was never wood.
It was wanting.
Believing tomorrow
could argue with now.
It can’t.
So I walk
past the fences,
past the yards
that still know my name,
past the mitten
if I have to.
Until now
is only a word,
and you
are only
who I loved.
Same Name, Same Temperature
The cross was never wood.
It was wanting.
Believing tomorrow
could argue with now.
It can’t.
So I walk
past the fences,
past the yards
that still know my name,
past the mitten
if I have to.
Until now
is only a word,
and you
are only
who I loved.
