For The Women in My Life: The Sunshine at my Door

Been some time since I posted anything here. For me, poetry comes from pain and wounds. Drawing and painting come from a similar place, but the best analogy I can think of is that drawing is the sun rising. Poetry is the moon. Ive gained some insight into some core issues in my relationships with women in the last couple of days. This poem actually preceded those insights by a week or more, but fits snugly like a jagged piece of glass in a wound. There is hope for healing.

How I wish I could have met you
In the sunshine at my door
With a warm hug to clothe you
As a crescent slice of sun met your cheek
And framed your coffee coloured hair like a halo

How I wish I could have met you
In the sunshine at my door,
Entwined in the long embrace of many years
Oiled wounds and caressing fingers
Gently tracing scars
Hearts beating blood against flesh

How I wish I could have met you
In the sunshine at my door,
With an open heart to crown you Queen
Instead of the phantom dogs of longing
That rim the night with fire
And chase me in my thoughts and
In my dreams

How I wish I could have met you
In the sunshine at my door,
Lips meeting in time, time greeting pain
A salty absence banished from the heart,
the mind,
A kiss of renewal, life,
And not betrayal.