Your flesh in the winds
Your scent in the rains
Your soul in the clouds  
Your voice in the thunders
Your throne in the hearts
Your death never will come
Your life in All
Your name is God

I wanted love like Sunday morning.
Coffee filling the house, the smell of bacon cooking, and a breeze through the windows.

I wanted love like Sunday afternoon.
Jazz playing on the record player, white sheets crumpled under our bodies, and the waves outside our perfect home.

I wanted love like Sunday night.
Wine glasses clinking together, fingers laced together, and crickets chirping in the meadow.

I wanted love like a Sunday morning...

Saw her standing on a balcony's ledge, staring down. Swore she could have jumped if it could stop the talking in her head, she's lost contact with herself, "insane" with hatred of self- she's felt the breath of death against her neck since **** had hit the fence- now she's hopping over it , total devotional focus, to hop, to land in the place of older, like greener grass, being sober, to love the one reflected when beauty gets inspected, expected recognition of her faulty symmetrics, civil disobedience creeping up in the rear of her, teetering on the length of the time that takes to make it, from top to bottom, toppling, dropping nonstop, won't stop till her heart stops.