I can hear gulls squawking
like catcallers in the streets
of New York City
but they're not talking to me,
they're speaking to the ocean breeze.
They'll be heading south soon.
Fall is coming
and you can taste it
even in the August heat.

I still have memories
of childhood summers
that lasted longer than some years
recently.
Can't help but think of the days
I wasted worried about
who I would be
and now I'm someone
sitting beneath a girthy oak tree
wearing a collared button up
that hangs on me a little too loosely.

I don't know what that means
but it may mean something
to somebody else
who writes love letters to life,
that might just double
as quiet cries for help
in a world so high on noise
it's forgotten poetry.

We hold onto memories
Of the people we knew.
We can't hold onto people.
They change.
Memories are always the same.

stars, the softest
prints, the watercolours
of the night, washed
in a rich green sea,
shining like prisms,
forgetful as the shadows of the moon
bold, restful bridge of the tide.

i am the moss that hides
in the crevice,
the forest dreaming of
wood-elves and
white clouds,
the ivories of
the stars.

the sea, rushing,
its blue inks dissolving
in pools.

a cloud whispers
fragments of a dark song
to the sky.

the waves crashing,
crashing, crashing….

smoke and ghosts,
utter emptiness.

the moon drifting
in a smouldering sea
of grey inks.

I wrapped my large arm around the house of the pure and stayed until the morning, reciting the mantra I made up

*If I stay, they will. If I stay, they will