I imagined myself leaving
someday.  Trading
plains for seas, exchanging
something loved for something
unknown.

And maybe it's the fear
of quietly whispering
goodbye that unsettles me.
Maybe it's the inevitable
end of familiarity,
like the sun's western descent
after a day that should not
end.
And when it does,
we all pack our bags
and say farewell.

Eventually,
I will trace new roadmaps on the
back of my hands;
I will find the familiar
creaks in the floorboards.

And when the sun sets,
someone will leave a light on
for me.

there is joy in this:
that you woke up this morning;
there's breath in your lungs.

I was never afraid of ghosts
before I kept seeing your face
in every mirror I passed.

The past kept you silent.
Locked you in a casket
and buried you in a pile of
faded photographs and
ink that bled recollections
across blank pieces of paper.

Now you are the thunder
that comes after lightning;
you are the shards of glass
after each mirror b re a  k   s.

The cathartic release
of weeping on the kitchen floor.
Hands on top of head, screaming

"how much longer will this last?"

Cue the banjo solos
and the violin swells.
Sleeping children in
withering weeping willow
high chairs
covered in creamed carrots.
Young cherry blossom lovers
shout curses,
shatter floodgates,
let tears flow;
petals are brushed away
by the wind.
Widows and over-easy eggs,
crossword puzzles and
sad irony on fifteen across -
"Murdered, 'Ides of March.'"
The weight of their fatigue
growing dark and heavy
under their eyes.

A waitress breaks silence,
"More coffee?"

A sleeping child awakes,
crying under the brightness
of the morning sun.

I.
He writes a letter
and sends it to her:
"My vacation's ending;
I'm out of my mind.
Tears follow after
days when I still felt
alive.
I never conquered Hate;
Love has been waiting,
just wanting some kind of sign
to trust,
(I never thought)
to hope,
(I'd die)
to care.
(alone.)
Please tell my mom this is not her fault."

II.
She writes a letter
to the one that she cares for:
"Tomorrow holds
a reason to live
and a reason to grow.
Days when I can still
feel the good things we know.
I can't wait to see you again."

III.**
He takes a taxi,
a young man drives.
Hope fills his eyes
at the end of the ride.
She arrives
safely with suitcase in tow.
He says,
"I didn't think enough."
She says,
"I should have not been gone for so long."
He is back safe in her arms,
without much regard
to the moon or the stars.
He keeps his head up and sails
through her pretty eyes.

She says,
"I'm yours and you're mine
and that's it, forever."

In the waiting room,
I watched two little boys
play with shadow puppets.
They transformed their hands
into figments of imagination
under the ghostly sterile lights
as doors swung wide
and gurneys and white coats
escorted the suffering
into rooms dressed with
pleasant paintings of peaceful woods -
placed on wall that have seen
far too many flat lines;
windows that have heard
far too many last words.