Maybe by Winter

June feels like a whisper of something I should already know

Half asleep under a sun that sets at the edge of epiphany

Drunk off the heat of needing to be nothing


June feels like a gentle hand against the pressure of absence

Coaxing light through an open window for tangible hope

Radiating in the understanding of a slow summer


June feels like a mother to a child of impatience

Singing a lullaby the pattern of time

Rocking to the sound of rivers and moving things


June feels like a worn out pendant of gold

Warm against skin, soft against hurt

Kissing my neck with promises of lasting people


June is the familiar stranger who still feels like mine

Dancing in the corners of possession 

Allowing grief to remember its place in this home

While I wonder what it is I should already know



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