To My Wife.*







i remember you
walking by my circle
thoroughly immersed in conversation

your hair done up in a bun
your eyes far off
as you spoke into your phone.

your eyes took me
as they take me away today
remembering how, as you walked up the steps

you glanced at me
then glanced away, to say hello
to friends who would introduce us

i never glanced away.
i turned
and took your eyes in
amber-lit by the yellow lights overhead
soft, playful,
divine.

torpe. or, at least i thought i was
that defensive tic now gone
as my eyes linger on you.

four years, six months pass.

i remember
as you stepped out into the afternoon
dusk bathing us in purple hues
across the sands,
your eyes amber-lit sparkled,
as you glanced my way,
turning quickly, to speak to your mother.

i turned to look at you.
and you looked back.
taking my eyes in
as i did yours.

in the midst of the throng,
of ten feet that separated us
i never felt more closer to you
than on that day,
four years, six months into the future
and three years in the past,

i breathed deeply, waiting
anticipating, worrying, wondering
if i made that moment as perfect
as you did
seven years, and six months in the past
as you walked past my circle
glancing my way.

i remember your eyes
amber-lit by the sunset,
glistening wet, as you looked into mine
from ten feet away,
no longer glancing away,
lit up, soft, playful
loving.

"Ginhawa, Butch," whispered Pastor Joel.
"Smile gamay -- the day is perfect
for you and your wife."






Penumbra: * In Transit (revision, edits, etc.)




.