Daisie is asleep upstairs on the couch,
wrapped in the pale blue, flowery comforter,
hopefully dreaming of beautiful things
beyond this broken world.
I try to put into to words, tools so
obtuse and transitory, the feelings
I have for her, my closest friend,
and the solace we’ve carved out here.
Head stills swims from the wine we shared
as we sat on the roof, calling the names of
the stars, and talking about all that was
going to come to be, hoping we’ve escaped pain.
Morning comes, and I give her that soft
and swallowing comforter, the biggest, fluffiest
pillow, and tell her to sleep well, to dream well,
as the sun came up, and we had no where to be.
In the downstairs room, my little office for writing
and her treasure and knick knacks to come today
for her bedroom on the third floor, with the window
that welcomes the sun every morning.
Been through hell, been swallowed by the beast,
but we’ve put miles and distance between those days,
and time, and we’ve found a solace in this house,
on a quiet street, and in each other, true and sacred friends.
May our world begin again. May we be wild children again.