I kept ribbons
in the kitchen
to tie around my heart
weakness come familiar –
as sunday morning
loaves
saturdays
a pudding cut with rum
who is there
to blame me
for moments without shame
allowing all
remembering of none
washed away
as evidence –
was here
I spent the night
pushed against
the oven –
clutching to a spoon
I kept my ribbons
close at hand
licked my fingers clean
braided into locks
of cappucine
. . .
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
How could we know as children deep was the flavor of our feelings …
…or that forever was but the space between breaths ❤