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The Attic
November 15, 2013
High up from everyone else,
cobwebs collect in the corner,
Your hands touch mine
behind grandma’s old dresser.
We snuggle up
watching the old home videos.
The rain drops beat down for us,
keeping our cover from the demanding world.
You act as if something is missing.
When I wake, you’re gone.
The weathered paintings,
their blank stares;
they know but won’t tell.
I let your heart,
Your body, your spirit
slip from my grasp
once I’ve fallen
to the depths of
Utter submission,
You leave.
I have only more
Reason not to
Trust, to love,
to be, to want
an object as
seemingly perfect as you
© Sarah M., Blairsville, PA
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