The end of a week

The light from the bed-stand lamp shone onto your hair

It was a wheat field at sunset, it was an empty clay field in New Mexico

With its saturated yellows, blacks and reds. I brushed my fingers across the plain.

I felt the grain brush and twist between my fingers.

 

You pushed your back closer to my chest and sighed happiness

And I continued to memorize every detail of the moment

The way I felt powerful and safe because I made you feel safe and powerful

The way you tried to continue the conversation, even though it was ending.

 

I pulled you closer, so that I may hopefully pull you within me.

Capture the time we spent together deep within my chest.

Where I could lock it away like a frozen songbird

That hums a single note that never ends.

 

Your packed cardboard boxes sang a soft hymn

It was a song about the time we’d never have.

I traced the lyrics that the boxes sung

Into the curvature of your back.

 

I wonder if the colors show in Houston

If the suns rays bounce off the city streets.

I wonder if in that roaring city

Your hair is the sole provider of wheat.