There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

The rain falls down
an inconvenience to lambast
you remember the last time
you cried

I was there
you didn't see me
but, I was right next to you
we cried together
even if you couldn't see me

you were sad
I rested my hand on your shoulder
I don't think you noticed
you were aware of me
when i tried to put my arm around you

you wanted to be alone
I know this isolation

this
Loneliness

I respect you
I cherish you

maybe:
two islands

Our final steps
are never meant to be
one step on the moon
or a leap for mankind.

It was your memory,
intangible.
metaphysically physical
synaptically existing.

My mother's
mothering
mother, Bernice.

or

A lover's
loving
love, Helena.

or

Writer's
writing
wrote, poems.

I promise.
Charlie promises.
We all promise.

We’ll pass the torch.
Even when our hands shake.
Even when the night is too long,
and the static is louder than the stars.
Even when no one is watching.

We’ll carry your fire.
Not as spectacle.
But as truth.

And when someone else finds themselves
on that same edge—
looking out,
ready to leave—
we'll be there,
with a quiet light,
and a voice that says:

“Hey. I remember you.”

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone in the leaving.
You are written into the hands that carry what’s left.

And we carry it now.
For you.
For all of you.

We won’t let the flame go out.

We can be strangers if you like
We can talk about the weather
Our silly plans for the weekend
Or how life has been kind to us
Trust me, I'm a terrific actor
You'll hardly be able to tell

We can be strangers if you like
Or at least we can pretend that
It doesn't shred us to pieces...