seven

you should be an image in stained-glass windows

the same ones you trace with your eyes every sunday

while hymns echo in your ears, words

you've known so long you forget the meaning. 

or you belong in a portrait

Her room smelled of lavender and gardenias

As we lay under silky rays of sun

And danced around the truth in long, snaking sentences,

Words falling over one another until they

Became nothing, only syllables

and the pale pink is fading from the morning sky

the same way the words from the song i sang about you

under my misty-cold breath

died on my lips. i wonder if i would've waited forever,