Another morning I’ve been sentenced,
feeling verb-less,
incomplete,
with my darling noun
I only let down,
when I feel like a child with a numb grip,
dragging him against the ground.

I watch him sleep, my sweet,
shimmering sun against the periwinkle morning
and all glows quiet . . .

but my muck of thoughts smell of rot,
with shadows of vicious vultures—
their black feathers buzzing with dooming vibrations—
smearing their gray against it all.

They’ve grown bored with the feed of palatable pity.
Their cravings threaten to gulp his gushing, golden heart,
bury it in the muck that wishes to swallow my temple.

I think of his holy water and bathe in it;
Thinking in his tears keeps me strong
and carries me down stream.

Each salty orb
wipes the grim and the grime
and refracts the light from his treasure,
his heart, casting
the rainbows that fire
arrows at the shadows.

I find my purpose in the thought of your wailings and weepings,
and I promise I’ll never lose your heart to grief.

Sorry the pillow is wet.
I’ve been crying in your sleep.