I think of you as a silent place —
an aerial, quiet and unassuming,
in a reach too solemn —
I hear everything:
The low rumbling of wind and
the slow shush in the growth of brambles
enveloping every newborn thought
that I could muster. I lack luster, now,
I imagine you have a world waiting for you,
one that features my absence. I can try
to fit in, but to find in you this silent place,
this hollow place,
not hollow as hollow is, but where
wishes can flourish, alive with possibilities,
is a dream I cannot resist.
Let me rest in you, then, dear,
let me think of you this way: that even
in the midst of stasis, you are movement,
a soothing pace in every
erratic heartbeat arrested in panic.
Let me dream of you, thus,
that you are cause for singing,
for writing hymns —
for dreaming goes as dreaming is —
a cause to weep, to put all of my
sorrows asunder, and finally,
give in to sweetest slumber.
— A. P.