Submitted by Sheikha A.

Nothing about tonight comes
as solace for the past, but a dream
of a key for entering rooms and a wish
on the lips to have met earlier in time
that contained the heart’s agility to heal
and the eyes never rained on unkissed
mounds; it has been spoken before on
many hale-leaden benches, of the suns
we’d spear in the sky, the picturesque
faces we’d be on gloomy frozen lakes,
and warmth we’d bring alive even on
the iciest trees where propensity is
rested – clouds fall over my face
like an indentation – your consumption
of my breaths.

Photo Credit: Snow at Argenteuil – Claude Monet

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