It isn’t quiet where you are, either.
The night is up, too bright for sleeping.
It is whispering words of encouragement
To the ivy and the lane.
The moon is a marshmallow,
With a bite taken out of it.
I’m cradling the clock,
Making time for all this thinking
I was called beautiful.
Some words come with their own history books,
With gilded pages and bookmarks you’ve forgotten.
Their authors lauded
For the way they have beguiled you;
For their annotations
To the life you thought you knew.
I was called beautiful
By a man who used to light me up like a Catherine wheel.
By a man I carried in my veins
To move my blood.
By a man whose name I kept on the tip of my tongue
And in the space between my thoughts,
For all those years.
I was called beautiful, today,
And yet I think of you
With your mysteries, and the questions
I can’t answer
I am holding you like a prayer,
Certain only that I keep speaking you,
Into the stillness, like the darkness and the light,
With no way of knowing what this is
Or if it matters
The falling words
Of other centuries,
The sacred songs of other lovers,
Shift in their time and spill themselves in mine,
Through the doorway of the clock
I still hold onto
The voices of the monasteries
And the collected symphony
Of others prayers,
I hear together.
My eyes are closed.
I feel beautiful, tonight,