Breath of God
They say write what you know, but I'm a little fed up with convetion at the moment. I wrote this as a wife, watching her dream marriage fall apart.
The warmth of my pink bedroom wall
that I press my hand to,
in the dark,
ddin't seem so fixed or stark.
My pillows being a feathery pair and all
I'd condescend to them,
after I've turned off the light,
my husband will later turn on the light,
and we’ll turn each other on
and it’ll be safe to turn the light off.'
Yet, when I got his phone call,
from an office he is probably not in,
I opened my window to a cold breeze,
to let in the dark,
feeling a little more fixed, the contrast more stark.
He’s sure I’m the foot of his fall;
I shiver, thinking,
'How clear is the breath of God,
minty like disappointed lips,
sighing through the screen,
telling me I’ll die alone.'
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