The poem I wish to write

Has fluttered a thought ember
towards the sun departing
from the edge of my window.

I gaze at it with wistful recall
till all colors blanketing the earth
have paled to shadows.

Tomorrow, the sun
will rise in your eyes.
And it will speak of a morning

more physical than longing,
more eloquent than lost verses. 

Wish

always the conversation to open avenues
long forgotten in the mind.
hers be the thoughts that have wandered
in this forest of forgetfulness, whose trees we used to climb
to shout to the sky our longings now birds bringing
the bleakest of rememberings. how interesting
the way we hide in our sleep, how we find blankets for keeps
in the fragility of waking while we take snapshots of us dreaming.
soon we shall be washed by the reality we escape: light.
light which is faster than the utterance of names
we give our wounds. tomorrow the healing begins:
i part the grayness of memories the way an old man parts
his hair of senility. and let me tell you,
you do not age the way a woman should. should there be a woman
to capture this heart burning in prayer, the same prayer
that burned down the house built by doubts,
let it be you. into the fire, i say, let it be you.
the birds are now returning to proclaim the secret of this wish.
and the forest is still, wide, and quiet. the avenues reopen,
the names and snapshots more vivid than ever.
the old man rises like a fleshed specter
and loses his hair in madness. again
we are perched on the same tree: love above all.
because all there is to love is above.