Tightrope

For every hour spent performing wickedness,

I need an hour to think about what I've done

And savor it.



Little birds can fill a long wire,

But eventually, that wire runs on, alone.



This solitary creature loves nothing as she loves your name.

Your silence.

Your distance.

You are the thing that will not open, but might,

And so my nails, and my mood, are often jagged.



For every hour spent performing wickedness,

Take a minute for the one who loves the wicked-doer

And savor her.



Little attentions can buy long devotion,

But eventually, that devotion needs more.



Stay away just one day too long,

Judge it wrong,

And you'll find out how much I love my solitude--

Not more than you, my dear,

But more than waiting.
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