I hide inside myself

in some secret waiting place

far away,

close beside,

listening to songs

I remember

of you.

No one goes

or knows

or maybe even cares,

and the brook of my yesterday

is a quiet spot

humming reflections

of soft cheeks

and soft lips

and gentle bruises

and I leave,

walking lightly,

when the hurting

hurts too much.

Half a day past morning

with nowhere to go

but on.

I turn away

from the thought of you

somewhere,

this moment,

moving along avenues

secret from me

known only to crowds

and strangers hurrying by

unaware what miracle they've brushed.

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Copyright Esther Luttrell - 2010