Wind Yourself
around my tubular core
like a vine
around a house’s pillar.
Sleep in next to me
under the weight
of the feathered comforter.
I’m in love with You, Words.
Fill me up.
Spend all of Your time with me.
Be the reason for my coffee habit.
Words,
You are my
front,
back,
left,
and right.
You chase Yourself through my mind
like a passenger train,
letting each person off
in antiquated
stations where
mothers dote
on their daughters
with elegant powders
and tortoise-shell combs.
You are the vines
from which I
pick my fruit, the
branches from
which I hang my
hope to grow.
You are the father
who picks up his daughter
to brush off the pavement
and hold her against him.
You are the band-aid to my soul
when original sin crushes.
You are the quiet hour that is both
night and day.
Be with me,
Words.
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