The Blood & The Bones

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If nothing else in this life I will always find the poetry in things..

I will find it in the rare quiet too early morning and the pattern of the wooden table where I sit and have my coffee.

In my little boy still sleeping, his golden hair laid across the pillow like a field of wheat..

I will find it in the door creaking and you walking in as if you had not been gone all evening.

And the sweet smell of someone else lingering on your flushed skin.

In the sun beams that softly fell through the kitchen window and how it was a too early for a drink but you asked for one anyway..

And that single tear that made your eyes look like a glass lake that you somehow kept from falling.

The way your hand gently shook holding a glass of bourbon at 6 am on a Sunday..

The way your back straightened and your jaw tightened when you said you loved her and not me as if you were steadying yourself for battle.

And the way I did not engage, for I could see the love that was not meant for me, or what you thought was love anyway, for she did not know you the way that I do and once she did she may not feel the same. Because then she would know about the way you were built for only taking. It would be pointless to beg you to stay here with us, to please not leave. To remember that I had been in this place through everything refusing to unlove you even when it almost killed me.

And instead I just nodded my head and said, you can never come back this time and I hoped with all my heart, that you would finally be happy.

the blood
& the bones