Monday morning at 7:03 am.
A layer of gray is settling
across the heavy closed sky
and threatening Monday rain.
The water creeps into my cold bones
that yearn only for the warmth of sun.
A pause now to touch paper,
hold this pen,
see what grows from the heart.
Before long, night will arrive,
with not a breath taken, not a flower seen.
Not a touch felt, not a soul held.
We are disembodied limbs
Walking past and through each other
like lonely headlights through fog.
How can we remember to open
our eyes, hearts, hands?
How do we find each other
even though we were always here?
The clock ticks on
and beings are born and lost and born again.
We wait with a dry mouth and panicked heart
wasting time and endless tears.
Longing only for the nectar of sweet words
and the salve of ordinary love.
Do you too rise on Monday morning
and try to warm your bones?
I hope we remember you and me and
the only words that can save us.
They will remind us of who we are
and so much more
when everything else
fades into gray.