where footsteps once borrowed my heart.
I keep waiting
for you to fold around the corners,
speak into my ear . . .
fall into my arms.
where stern wood was once rooted.
Tiny hands that breathed life into my wrists –
spoke volumes to my shoulders –
built cities inside my chest,
now walk out the door alone.
My guidance no longer needed.
There is a quiet inside the silence,
that I don’t know if I will ever grow accustomed to.