#98

It’s... pathetic, really.

The safest place on Earth
will always be
the quaint front porch
of our old home.

The clouds, the sun, and moon
blend the sky into perfect gold.
Not the kind of gold
you could buy off
some silly old auction.

The golden hour,
that single, rare occurrence
that happens once a day,
is something no one
could ever imagine buying.

The neighbors are just coming home
from their normal day jobs,
and some are only beginning
their everyday work,
unique in their own ways.

I apologize if I called them normal.
Nothing is.

But really, at that moment,
with you there,
just within my arms,
that isn’t all you are.

You’re beyond that.
You’re... something else.
More than anything else, really.

We’d be there, cuddling each other,
you telling stories
about what happened in your day,
and I’d answer with
“Yes,” “Oh,” “Alright,” “Then what?”

I’d listen to everything you say.

You’d be like a precious,
precious child,
eyes glistening,
your voice never parched,
telling me grave secrets
you believed only I,
me alone,
among all the souls in this world of ours,
was worthy enough to hear.

And the tragic part is...

I can’t even look at you.

I couldn’t.
I really can’t.

You, the most beautiful, wonderful soul
this world has ever held,
and I can’t even look straight into your eyes.

The safest place in the world
is, and will always be,
within my arms.

And here,
you’re crying.

I’ll keep you safe, alright?

But...
it’s hurting me too.

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