Some things are sacred.
Like the time I touched your tooth
Or you put your palm on my scar for two seconds too long.
Or me seeing your feet in new socks,
Two blue crescents I wanted to rub against my face.
It feels wrong to lay them out here
like tools in a physician's office, waiting to excise a thing.
I'd rather expose them like leaves no longer kept inside branches.
And leaves? What do they do but change?
Me, you, breathing.
I try hard to pay attention like before you, but I am losing.
You are not, so I am happy.
Maybe here,
under a different moon, I can let the sacred fall, soft and magnificent
so my branches don't ache from emptiness.
Maybe I can grow a thing from the fall out.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Sacred
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