let it.

by Michael King

oh, wide-eyed lover,
someday you may just learn
to let a
smile across the dimly lit bar
be a grin, let the
song that played the first time
his lips met yours
be music, let the
things he whispers in blue early hours
be words

perhaps, tender poet,
you can rest
your pen, let the
folded up shirt he left behind
be a hoodie, let the
villains who left scars in their wake
be men, let a
wound, somatic, on your open sternum
be healed

or, bright-hued painter,
you may just keep on
embellishing, let the
lunch under overcast skies
be an adventure, let the
hand finding yours while sleeping
be a love song, let the
hard days that didn’t break you
be a story.