Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses,
"When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch,
he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct,
essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur,
it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken,
for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there
is music aching in my muscles and in my perused
words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way,
and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched,
at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase
worthy of a poem in and of itself, but
let someone else,
perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented:

to be heard,
to be believed,
to be by, relieved,
to being understood
to be felt, given and +
taken, and given a great
musical measure of comforting…

in summary too,
here is where,
I thank you.



nml
9/12/25
5:15am

In the hollow stretch of fading days,  
I reached for shadows, not your touch.  
The aching hours grew long, unkind,  
Beneath the weight, alone, I stood.  

And now you speak of turning back,  
The road eroded, trust dissolved.  
How dim the light you think I see,  
When all was night, and none was you.

Sometimes when comes sunrise,
I ache like I died.

Something like being stabbed in the heart,
14,967 times with a real dull knife,
Maybe that's what they mean,
When they say love is full of strife.

I need her more than life,
Somedays I let myself die.

if roots can wait,
beneath the earth,
for a rain they cannot live without.

and if the stars wait,
lingering in dusk,
just to see the moon once more.

then i,
full of burning ache,
can wait too.

I will wait for you.