In the Morning

I look about... at the wall;

At the pictures.

I hear the music of clattering dishes,

And idle conversation.

And I remember last night.

The whispered words;

The slowly opening heart;

The pain of still fresh wounds,

Washed with tears.

My hands are shaking

And I cant fight off the memory.

My hands were about her face;

My arms holding her close;

I said nothing,

She said it all.

I look out the window now,

At the noisy street.

I told her my hand and my heart

Would always be hers to hold.

The waitress fills my coffee

And glances at me with a knowing smile.

I look out again at the street

And I know she will come.

DW ( IGK) (c) 2005