End of the Sentence

End of the Sentence

I feel like my eight year old self

Waiting for Christmas morning two days away

The notes are stashed and read in the quiet

Of my bedroom whispers to a man who isn’t listening

For the gifts to parade across the sky

And enter my little corner of the earth

To say that girls don’t come down chimneys

And the smoke is burning my hands

Every time I check to see if it is time yet

For the time to come, to burn this behind

The period to this other piece

The end of the sentence of this passing please

Hurry up and move the words of these prison bars

Out of the way for me to say I am aware of your isolation

Standing there somewhere else open to the movement

Of the clock and stop

Proliferating hope like a dwindling bar of soap

I keep taking showers and washing this impatience off of me

I want to be left clean with you and shed this soot

From the steps that I wandered through

To end this sentence and grow up in less

Than two days time to see that you are real

And not an illusion of my wish-list mind

Riding up there with reindeer and prayers

Hoping that the light will hold you there

To not melt in the sun, a mirage of one

Hope vaporizing in the morning

As I reach to hold your hand