and though, I know, the winter comes,
I see the paint upon your thumbs,
the blues and hues of dappled thyme
that scar a world from a nursery rhyme;

and there, written, lightly, in pencil,
a paragraph for a time stenciled,
adjectives and flavoured truth
a place made up for our innocent youth.

i liked he
he liked she
she liked he
who liked me

l'appel du vide

I remember the wind,
howling, messing up my hair like invisible fingers,
hollow with ghosts;

I can see this memory in fragments.
you are there,
but it is your absence that I recognize -
it is the lack of you I see.

you are a star, surely past your name;

and that is me: I am born of dust, you of light.

there are two sides of this moon -
one has always been cast in darkness,

and the other,
a mirror for the sun.

but she is ethereal, though she takes all light and dark

and she is steady, though the tides she turns are monstrous

and she is encompassing, for without her we would have been cast in our own shadows.

she is battered with asteroid collision, entrapped in this gravity,
protecting the mother that kills itself.

I am a product of collision
an incidental incision
A dead flower rotting in its own soil;

and so, I shall be dust returning to dust -
a product of myself, collapsing like the stars that made me.

yes, I am unlimited;
like a record
doomed to replay
its brokenness
forever.

I will not break,
I am the friction of fire
and ropes tethered to cement
and anchors shattering coral.

I am unlimited
unlimited
with limited time
and limited self.

but yes, i am unlimited -