The Pulse

The shrill piercing  ring accelerates

my pulse, my heart thumps

partially with longing.


-Mumbled sincerely you say.

The white crumpled sheet lifts,

from the purple-hue beneath eyes.

Darkness from the hallowing hour

of the night engulfs me.

The sound echoes into the corners

of my soul. Pulls me out of a quiet,

warm dream and back to reality.

My hand reaches to respond, but is

pulled back by yours.

Stay! Again, with a hopeful tone

you plee. But feeling your arms

beating life reminds me, clarifies

my purpose,

my passion,

my exhaustion.

I must go.

My faded blue scrubs, religiously

laundered brush against my hip

where your hand just grazed.

The black, cold air sharpens my senses.

An icy path guided by the moon

brings me to my nocturnal homestead.

You are not forgotten.

I listen to a broken heart, it’s beat

so different from your steady music.

Finished with duty and purpose,

that this shared life, his mine and yours

has bestowed, I crumple.

Folded and content with fatigue, back

to your bed-warm hands.

I press my head close to hear the steady

lullaby, thumping in your chest.

You were not forgotten.

Image taken at Old Man of Storr, Isle of Skye, Scotland


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