Touch was the original poetry
before we convinced ourselves
that we had to say something.

The past is ashen
rumor of fire
rekindled for light and warmth.

The future is rain
feathers of potential
flights fated yet to fall.

All that is a moment both
stillborn, immortal
sand castles built amidst
emergent tides and tidings.

Life is to collect
a thousand nows
and trade among
the souvenirs.

And I don’t know why do I miss you.
Is it too early in the morning for me to remember I’ll wake up alone?
Is it because I again forgot to take the daily dose of Prozac?
Truth be told, I don’t know. And you won’t know either.

It is in fact too soon for me to face the truth?
Because my fairy tale dreams are still running circles in my head.
First step’s first:
Denial.

I’m brewing coffee for two.
One would expect that after all this time I would simply summon up
I would wake up without looking at the right side of the bed
I would take one mug, make coffee for one
And instead, here I am.

Is it too late to beg some more?
I don’t know what will be of me
All I know is, Today, I miss you