Poem: 8:17



A plate of hash steams.
A cup of coffee, half full.

Her perfume lingers against your skin.
You can feel her softness,
a palpable thing still lingering
in something more than memory.

She wears her scars in the night,
like jewelry, the punishment and pain of decades
glitter in the light of love,
and like each and every one of us,
reflects the love she is given.

And this morning, as you settle in to work,
that reflection lights your day
as you breathe in something more
than the night before –
but the promise of nights to come.

About this poem

It is 8:17 as I write this. I am at a diner called Nicks in downtown Athol, Mass. The woman I love is off to work. But part of her is with me still.

This being in love thing is still new, even three years in.



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