Whatever is not
As we once wanted
As we lose and long
and dream

And whatever is
Which will be missed
In the years to come
As we look back
With a different sort of longing

The fire which burns beside me
Inside me
Around me
And the smoke
Of this day

Which becomes the sky
Just as the ash becomes earth
The breaking of a heart
So to speak

And the mending
Of some cracks
Or Scars
Or a newfound window
To some world
Whose existence

We knew nothing of
Well,
What it is
For me right now
And whatever it is for you, too

May this poem be enough

glide on air thermals
will eat roadkill like buzzards
clean the oceans, storks

Worn to the brim is the old necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are feckless,
fickle as they crack and slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been regally taught,
it is inside the mind often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.

I think of you on warm summer evenings
when our slowly setting sun coats
dappled oaks in more shades than I can count,
and every leaf is framed in greengold.

I think of you as sleepy wind
lingers in my hair,
strands dancing on a moment,
before laying to rest by a collarbone peak.

I think of you when the warmth settles on my skin
so easily that I see myself
spill out into the dusky air,  
finally weightless.

I think of you.