I cannot write
I cannot find
behind the creases
of my mind
the words to fill
another line,
those words wait
out of sight
for now I
cannot write.

a sincere wish that, as each morning breaks, we mend

on

old oaken tables I'll love
you in dark roast coffee
and steamed milk with
honey, against quilted
beds early morning in
the loft, when the sheets
are loud and the floorboards
aren't awake, when the windows
are dewy, we won't speak about
our mistakes.