Stitch the living back into my breath.
Plate the longing under my tongue.
Knit your willing upon my brow.
Empty your knowing into my lungs.
Rip the worry from my lips.
Trim the doubt from my spine.
Drain the sorrow from my throat.
Snip the regret from my mind.
But, for a start —
you must suture my heart.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe