12:17 a.m.

It’s 12:17 a.m., I hear your tennis shoes,
swooshing down the hallway-
stopping momentarily, to check on each of our children-
One of the other or both needs to be recovered-
So you do- then you lean to kiss their sleepy cheeks-
…and make your way to my waiting, loving arms-

Tonight the hallway holds an eerie silence; Breaching
the contract between my mind and arms-
If only I could see your face; Outline your lips with
the tips of my fingers; Smell your freshly showered body-
Feel your weight pressing down on the edge of our bed-
If only I could-

Tomorrow I’ll have no choice but to say my goodbyes,
and yes there will be tears with painful grief and sorrow-
Yes there will be a lifetime of lonely days and nights-
Yes there will be countless sleepless moments of hugging
your pillow and sobs of agonizing and hurt-
but you’ve not left my arms empty or abandoned my heart-
just as I’ve not abandoned you on our last night together-

It’s 12:17 a.m., and nothing or nobody can take that away from us-
I can hear you in the hallway-
and the creaking door as you slowly peek in on our children-
I can smell your freshly showered body; and your weight pushing
down on the edge of our bed-
And I’ll trace your lips over and over again-
and it will be 12:17 a.m., forever-

© Lisa Hilbers
04/26/2006