Little Words on a Sunday Morning

I'm the epitome of anxiety.
I've seen it described
as a whispering cloud,
cumulonimbus hanging on my shoulders,
telling me I should smile softly
and close the door
before you rain on me
and leave me motionless,
waterlogged and despondent.

With a sigh,
you brush the storm off my neck,
kiss my cheek,
and offer consolation
that drowns out the deluge,
dries my shivering bones.

Though it leaves you shaking,
sometimes teary,
you open your arms and
retake the role of keystone
when a lesser love would
watch the stones tumble down.

I read through countless syllables,
each a candle in this chapel
you have built for me.
Each a bead in my rosary.

The sun is stumbling from his bed,
and I think of you still silent in yours.
When you wake I'll still have
two o'clock eyes,
but my heart is alive
with all your little words.