the waiting.

there is this silence
i keep
i have woven it into my sheets
to unravel each night
when i am eventually
taken by
sleep

my fingers find yours amidst the darkness
they touch somewhere along a broken
seam
ripping stitch by stitch
silently
to reveal what has been hidden
to see what has been ignored
in daylight

but
it is not you
my love,
but me conjuring you
line by line
what might have been
and what i wanted for things to become

there is this silence
i do not speak of,
until now

in faint sentences of solitude
and longing
i draw a picture of me
holding you in my arms, staring at a brilliant sunset
melting into the horizon
leaking into our dreams
as we catch stars
in between conversations
fading into morning.

*for this boy who remembers me every now and then, and whom i never fail to amaze.