There are no words,
only eyes
in a silent world
where your presence is enough;
there is no time,
only pure promise,
memories like crumpled notes,
and empty sugar packets,
each with a story.
But there is night,
your metronome of breath,
the darkness like a womb;
and there is also dawn,
when we are born again, again.
Published in Open Arts Forum on .
Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.
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