POEM - Annie Morgan

Come into the dying light

Show me every healthy imperfection

Let my bipolar eyes judge you

for all the women you’re incapable of being,

only to cry over the ideal thrust

of the impeccable one you actually are

For we were not made in God’s image

You are the lone flower of winter,

and I am a conscious cocktail

I will talk until you’re okay;

I will listen until you’re not

I will find you nightly, no matter where

the old habit of wet fingers

tries pulling you into that

forever-willing undertow of sadness

And I will die harder than said habit,

within your aged petals;

a promise you can blemish

without it breaking

  

So come into the dying light,

and know that I will always take care of you