Make me a window from sonnets that open and close to vistas of hence-forths and wither thouest.
Build me a house of words where every room is changeable by the moment and we can get lost in a pause.
Wither thou goest without me on this day, while I wait in my too too immovable mortar and bricks.
Put words in the sky that cause the birds to flutter and the birds can eat the words and sing like the ancient choirs they are.
The best bed will be made from ellipses that linger on and on while sentences unfold themselves in other places.
Enfold me in your dark embrace of unspoken promises. I will give them voice when you will not and write them down to make certain I heard (unheard) you correctly.
All our tiny wordlings have flown the nest and now no wordlings visit.
They have grown up and gone to other pages.
That once wrote me.