Her blonde hair is cut severely,
Just above her shoulders.
Her face is middle aged,
Like mine,
Showing youth is past.
-
Sweet, melancholy, distant.
The TV runs all night,
As we drift in and out of sleep,
Cuddling, not talking,
Feeling the weight of loss.
-
The violence that was Earth shattering,
When her and I were teenagers,
Is routine now.
We switch between the news,
And art films about damnation.
-
She stirs awake. I kiss her.
She burrows into my chest.
I stroke her hair.
War is brewing on TV.
A scholar sells his soul.
-
I awaken as the sun shines
Through the glass patio door.
I see she woke first,
And was watching me.
She kisses me.
-
We do not sleep through the night, anymore.
The night is calm and sweet and kind.
Even with Cassandra on the TV.
Even with Mephistopheles offering a bargain.
You have to ignore both.
-
We walk, hand in hand, to the bus stop.
To go to work at a university, that's really a sports team.
Cool of the morning, when the sun is gentle.
She kisses me on the cheek, to give me strength.
I whisper in her ear, God's secret name.
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