All the Empty Spaces
He speaks of the weather, of family and friends...
anything to fill the spaces, and I wear his
words like my favorite sweater-
but not all spaces need filled with words.
The gaps are welcome, as I listen to the
fall of rain, the trill of songbirds,
the brush of leaves against the pane.
He continues along about the garden,
the dog and such, as I watch his lips
and his eyes, until I can no longer
disguise how tired I have become.
I smile weakly as he squeezes my hand.
He fluffs the white pillow as I close my eyes,
drifting into dreams, not knowing if I will awaken.
My body is a glass doll one might keep in a hutch,
but my heart is a lodestone drawing in his love,
clutching onto his strength...as he does mine.
I sense his tears perched, ready to spill.
I can feel his breath in my hair. He reposes
inside my heart, crowding out all the sad places,
all those empty spaces.
The artist can paint his love on canvas.
The singer through his songs.
The dancer through plies and croises.
But he paints more than the artist,
displays more than the dancer,
imparts more than the singer-
for he is the song.
He fills the spaces.
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