How can I walk in
to other cities like they're
my
castle too
like they welcome
with their arms outstretched at the end
of a race
a finish line from start to
finish
go to start

I thought I couldn't
love someone
new
and
at the ribbon,
I'm finding I'm wrong

You're trauma.
Memories, flooding
into places that
usually do not
fill, have not been
full before
You're my pain
my hope
my little faith who is-
n't so small, ignored
at all

You're a warped record,
a broken pew-
a longing to be held
in the coldest of
nights by the
history of arms in
me

You're my religion
and you could hear it
if you opened your
wings,
lay your sorrows down,
your bible down,
the holy ashes of
Wednesday
down

You're my country- my baptism,
so let the waters flood you
too

I can see in your
eyes there
is sorrow
and I can see you
row,
out of
control,

on the edge of the sea you are
lonely

and you long to be
everywhere all at
once-
you have to know
I feel the same
to go and
stay with you,
to pull towards the
shore
then back to sea
with you

Darling, if on the edge of a cliff
you dangled your grief,
I'd hold that rope with you.
Use my tiny, agile, painter's hands to
hook on every
misery,
to
hang over
the edge of alienation,
a pendulum of problems where ocean's mist
can cut the cord

I want to bear the weight of all your
worry, until the
lighthouse stream goes
grey
and watch your doubts,
your troubles,
your need for what it is you cannot find
slowly fade
away

I'm on the edge of a cliff,
with you
and your sadness can't make me
sway
to pull towards the
shore
then back to sea
with you

It's not often
a poem wakes me
in the night

stirs me out of
unconsciousness to
speak to me

it's never been about
you
or us-
it's never said a
word to me that's pulled
me from the very moment that
I'm living in

but here with you,
here where winter
is mid-stretch
and the Ash Groves seem
quieter than
ever

I'm waking over
and over
and over,
my love,
because
you're speaking
to me
and poems keep
waking me in the
night.

It's moments like now
where I'm running to
my notebook,
chaotic flight for a pen
because I feel
the morning stir
within me

I love you
and I've never been so sure-
so I have to touch
the tip of a pen
to the plane of a
paper
and let my quiet hands
dance into
literary
song

I love you and I've never been so sure