Exhaustion, creeps
over bones buried;
Ancient darkness,
Kissing more, than surface.
I'm begging you:
you, whose love, for me
anchors deeper,
than the run, of veins...
Excavate, the tired pieces
Blow sand,
from their twisted sutures,
Treasure each artifact, of me
As if I were still, the wild storm,
twisting around you.
I pray, to be,
More, than the ephemera
of hoarded boxes:
valentines,
and memorabilia
that sit, on the oaken shelf,
hewn by hand,
hung just below,
your beating heart.