cheerio_cherry

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles. 

Think of whispers in the shade
Picnic cloths and lemonade

Afternoons in softened light
Books that stretch long into the night

The man stopped, bending over, weeping until his tears seemed to fill a gaping hole in his heart he had not noticed was there.