I wake up in the Mourning and realise she's not there
What can I do when half of me is gone?
when my heart has flown away on steely wings
with all the warmth that used to clothe my peace
then what is left for me?
When I close my eyes I can see her skin
when I am alone I hear her breathe
I am on pause, I am in a rage
and all the sweet breeze of order
the other half of our metaphor
all the auric beauty that is painted with her name
is vanished like a morning mist
in the deathly light of another day
and I am left sitting in a cage
my T-shirts are my sackcloth
and my showers are all dust
while I say that I am not thinking of her hair
and the smooth curve of her neck
as it slopes like an alder tree to meet her shoulder
when I say I am not reaching for her in my sleep
my blood is beating too hard
for those lies to be believed.
I am an unwilling abstinence
from her face and from her lips
and I am at war with distance.
If I could mail her a kiss
wrap it in satin to keep it soft
could I send her a blank piece of paper
to let her know all the things that need to be spoken
with my cheek touching hers
If i could catch a bird
and teach it to sing
and tell it why I miss her,
how she is like a sunrise
that hasn't come for too many days
than I would convince it to migrate to your side of earth
and tell you the gospel of my love.
And then, maybe then
It would give her its wings
so she could fly back to me.