Saturday, January 29, 2011


It isn't the smile or the eyes or the hair
Nor the way of the walk.
It's the presence.

Her and she, they have the presence.
Phone calls frequent, vocal chords more.

Turning, I try to watch the birds flying as
An airplane banks against the blue sky
Returning from Lost.

Waiting and waiting, the game keeps on.
Daring to win, I push on further.

Surviving is not thriving, as I sense their eyes
Feeling sorry, wondering at strength
They believe I hold.

Would they laugh, if they knew?
Would they cry, if they walked my mile?

January 2011

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