Our love is gleefully silent
like a teen sneaking home
in the morning hours.
It has passed the time
sweetly, secretly
whiling away years
on the whim of a stroll
with a handsome suitor.
When I let go of your hand
I had your heart.
And morning never came.
The sun never rose on us,
burning its harsh light.
We made our home instead
in the balmy bosom of night.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Our Love
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