Tuesday, August 14, 2012

My Love

My love begins to play.
His fingers curl to pluck and move across strings
that bend to his will. He pulls from them
a melody so rich and melancholy that
it drains my intention and leaves me entraced.

My love begins to sing
of our younger days - when glances
filled with timid heat and
stumbling words snagged in shared whispers
defined our days in moments of shining clarity.

My love begins to sigh
and lament the cruel rush of age
and the aching reminder of muscle and memory.
Softly smiling, he touches my face, "the same as then,"
and I feel loved.