an angel's wing will have to do

these days when i listen to you

you are quiet

the darkness of a waning moon

on a drizzling spring night

when everyone has gone home

but the deadlines will arrive soon,

and I

am not yet done

with this work

this slow song

like a ballad

between us -

I must admit

to singing many songs these days

not always sure

with whom I am really singing.

in my mind they dance and blur

because of course

none of them are real

for all that their touch stays

long after they've gone -

after I've declined.

reluctantly, for

life calls to life

and yours

has always called to mine.

He said it was my nature.

not to be fickle,

but to fall in love.

be warned, he cautioned me.

it is love you love

not the container -

the music that draws you

more than the particular instrument.

I like to listen.

but I like to sing, too

and i can only sing

one song at a time

broken though it may be

with these long silences.

So tonight I hum this song

to you.

i listen to your quiet

(almost, i can hear your breathing

in the cars spraying puddles over the sidewalks

and the wind nuzzling up to the quickly-closed-shut windows

and the ginger cat stretching besides the

cooling stove)

and i find myself wanting

to send you a caress

like an angels wing

softly brushing across your cheek

a presence at your back

there, just there.

yes, you can lean.

a caress - to

paint my finger across your forehead

the way my mother once did

to put me at ease

on those nights long ago

before you graced my path

before I knew i didn't know...

ah, to offer that warmth

of that large woman's embrace

such softness!

of course i knew (had to know) her tears;

but her fingers on my forehead

that magic paintbrush against time

drawing a world of savages and dancers

mysterious familiarity

binding all this craziness

towards something called meaning...

listening to your quiet tonight

i would reach across space

to - i don't even know where! -

a pub? a dinner table? a desk?

a bed

and give you a sweet caress

a caress

so much sweeter

than a text:

'hey there. soon. xx.

x.'

but of course, these days,

we both know what we mean (do we?)

in these quiet refrains.

though honestly

it is not my mother's hands

that would touch you,

cup your chin

trace the curve

of your jawline

finger then nail

biting the edge of your

skull.

i suspect my hands

which mostly rest on keyboards

were really made

for lovers.

and muses

are poor lovers

for lost singers

such as i.

So, perhaps,

the caress of an angel's wing

will have to do.