we can
never
go back.

to Sunday
mornings,


with the
loves
of our
lives.

turning over
like an
open love
letter
for only
them to
read
in our
bed.



holding us
dear.

it is
a reflection
that you
can
never
focus
to clarity.

a heart
beat
that
skips a
beat,

and then
never
comes back
to you
again.

a first
kiss

just once.

and then
it runs away
from your
lips.

and at the
thought
of him.

you rush
for the
cold
salvation
of a
ice
shower
against
your skin.

whenever
to remember
when.

it is a
solitary maze
you walk..

and his
arms are
lost
to you.

and my
words.

are such
a poor
substitute

for the
look
in his
eyes,

whenever
he would
see you.

the laughter
in his
voice,

over
something
that you
have said.

this Sunday
morning

I can't
promise.

I can't
promise.

I can only
give
you these
pauper's
words

and a
place
to rest
your
weary
head.

tonight.