Beneath the noontide sun I wait,
my thirst calls to you
and I cannot quiet it.

I’m wrecked by knowledge
you’ll bathe me again,
bleeding into me
as you shred on my sharp edges.

Gulls mock my anguish
with their lofty cries
knowing your death
is my birth
and vice versa.

Such is my burden;
heaven and hell in your wake.

From that watery grave in your eyes
rises a blood blue moon
It seems fitting that your return
should be heralded
by such an auspicious rising
yet I am as solemn in your approach
as I am mute in my protestations.

You rise to me, compelled
yet spare no vigor.
Smashing down upon those jagged places
you wash over me,
flood me,
fill the spaces between my pain
and try as I might to hold you,
you slip between rocky fingers.

The roar of your release
from your demise
as your fingers rake at my shore.

I cradle puddles of you
in my palm
to console
in your absence.

©Copyright Maggie Lawson 2018

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