He Who Wanders

Half-sung praises
Sound in silence
Where an echo finds room to grow.
Me time and my space
Make nothing but hallowed ground,
Angel of mine,
Where memories become a cripple’s
Crutch. And daydreams are all I can do
To fend off the doubts festering.
So save room.

Don’t make room.
Smother me with kisses
Until, breathless and begging
For more and more,
No one could wonder
What fills your head. In bed,
Buried in your chest,
Silence doesn’t seem so sad.