by Precious Jonesof losing you
cannot be
captured fully
in an iamb,
the stressed-unstressed
rhythm of my regret
could never be
objective
or harmonious, nor
will the lyric
of your lips
resonate for anyone
but me,
so I sing you softly,
sweetly,
play your hands
like a harp,
pluck each finger
'til they rest
around my waist,
I sing your heart,
a medley of notes
I couldn't read,
couldn't reach,
but I am soprano
and release the
melody of you
from the core of me
where it laid dormant
one thousand,
four hundred and
forty days.
Until today.
