Eventually,
These hands that shake
And clench and scrape at skin,
Will be held still,
Or wide in greeting.
And this face that people see,
Is not the face that really
Buries itself in the coarse material
Of the cold, wet, pillow.
But will be raised and smiling,
Eyes sparkling with humour,
Not that which falls
Far behind them.
When this mouth opens,
Less literal words
Will march out, sure footed
And bold.
Because right now… I cannot, cannot
Move, or breathe, or think without
Hearing, seeing, smelling, feeling
you sink from my vision.
So I will wait.
Until I can dryly smile
As the rain falls inside
not out, hoping that it will
Eventually dampen this…
Eventually.
(picture from sketchbook of john burgerman)
