As June turns to December
all's the same, and I remember
our seaside jaunts along
the shore were flecked
with burnished gold.
When will he speak?
I cannot, cannot say it first
of love, of angst, a heart
that bursts with longing for
a simple hearth,
communion with
teacups and books with
phrases intermingled,
small talk of me and you.
Why doesn't he speak?
I'd have been content had I
not known a table with
conversation strewn upon
it mixed with bits of
marmalade on toast and
no place set for loneliness.
Uncertainty across his brow,
always fleeting, always now,
as if the universe would melt.
His would melt and so would mine
into universes intertwined and
enriched with so much more,
more love than we've ever
known before.
Why does hesitation make his
steps falter upon my stairs
or to the altar?
Shall I savor the warm wind
fresh from a summer sea and
make my own way ~ mine and me?
Shall I capture its essence and
tuck it into my soul...
nestling and nurturing it
against the midwinter
shadows damp with
solitary cold?
I'll leave him to his
indecision, his tepid
warmth, constant revision.
I'd rather be the queen of hearts
and center of the world; to lead
the parade with flags unfurled
than look back with a heart
full of lost hopes and
childless years of his
weekly visits.
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