A graveyard speaks in gentle groans,
While winds whisper to lonely hills,
Chilling stoic standing stones,
That display cold names departed,
That overshadow buried bones,
And shade the brokenhearted.

Climbing vines grasp as they creep,
Turmoil settles as winds calm.
Distressed decades drift to sleep.
A moment to rest anguished ages.
Yet dirt sown remains to reap,
Wisdom of forgotten sages.

Awakened, a dusty breeze enhances,
Fluttering leaves and stirring grass.
Lives lived are in these turbulent dances,
Men and women you may never know.
Their dreams, loves and lost romances,
Triumphs and tragedies of long ago.

Transformed, into breath -- inhaled by lungs,
Personal particles drawn from air.
Unpaid debts and deeds left undone.
Regret, anger, fear and despair,
Battles lost, exhale the same as victories won,
As do the prophet and the prayer.

Perhaps the body is not my curse,
Reality so fragile as to change with a gust.
I sense my thinking was in reverse,
If my soul's intuition is a force I trust.
Then I know I am not lived to death,
But dying to birth, the living dust.

I don't remember, any more,
The exact shape of your hands
As I held them in mine,
Caressed them,
Memorized the length of your fingers,
The depth of your calluses.

I don't remember, any more,
Exactly your height, how much
Taller than me
You were, where
My head rested on your chest
When you held me tightly close.

I don't remember, any more,
Your scent, when we lay together
Creating our own
Magic rhythm,
Matching our heartbeats as we
Touched the sky, together.

I don't remember, any more,
The sound of your voice, calling
My name as though
It were a song
Within itself, a precious treasure
You valued with all your being.

And I don't remember, any more,
The color of your eyes, the shape
Of your lips,
Only...
How your eyes crinkled at the corners
And your laugh, as you told me,

"I love you."

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”