Lionheart

In the phantasmal spectrum of faces
I look across the clouded evening,
stare right into the passenger-side vacancy
and whistle softly,
call to your ghost, your halcyon trace
that illuminates my shadow hours
with gentle refulgence.

Dear heart, draw near to me
because I will always need your hand
when the corners pile up with broken glass
and hoarded grief
and you will always keep me
turning long after the music stops

and we will always know our place
is on backroads and back seats,
your head on my shoulder and my heart
giving thanks for the effervescent wonder

of you, whistling in the dark.

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