Aching Sunday

Tremendous love, resides inside

As an aria
Weightless and burdensome
How is it that such fullness
This nothing less than aching
Arrives and leaves me
Walking
Feeling
As a ghost on Sunday
An otherwise fine, fine day

And there are no ears to touch?

Talk

That native language

A foreign-love affair

A promise to live

Always and ever

For the first time

After all those years

Best friends building a home on a hill

Perfect ingredients grown in a garden

Kitchens and dance floors, garages and road maps

Weary-strong hands holding fast in the night

You talked that talk