I don’t know if I could tell you the truth

A bowl of things, placed then left
Where dust aggregates.
Time drags on, but feeling does not appreciate

Sitting on your floor cross-legged
Across from wax that burns, ready to hit the candelabra
Try not to feel ragged, depleted
And feel rich: with time, with love, with hate
All repeating

A grasshopper, a spring, the trampoline
Where we felt all those things

Draw everything to a close
Tie it up tight and make sure there are no holes
Bury it in the ground for some stranger
So they can see what was left..

At least someone will know)