These tired goodbyes that linger in black
wreathes of smoke, more bitter than Maror,
are what we are left when the dancing is done.
Curling around our night, they twist and weave
the pattern of starving days that will pass
until, breathless, we feast on dreams again.
Timid hopes will yield to joyful kisses,
and you, my Love, shall leap among the stars,
I laughing carelessly into the dusk
as, brick on brick, we lay our lives once more,
held fast with Heaven's eternal mortar.
YOU ARE READING
A Wrong Turn
PoetryA collection of poems that chart a relationship from its genesis to its failure and beyond.
