Time slipped,
Like the thoughts he forgot to remember.

Other lives might have been golden,
Other men might have had grace.

Other lives of love might not have gone to waste,
Other bodies might not have broken.

The grit and the grime asked his favor,
As they plied in his hands.
In their moments of pause,
They choked his tired eyes.

Never would he know
Anything but what he knew now.
Never would they teach
Anything but what he knew now.

These lives and lovers trembled, buried in the part he could still see.
These hates and have-nots sung to him, desperately, furiously.
These tastes of metal left him hot and lonely.

Time recovers itself, and in that instant,
Like the thoughts he forgot to remember,
He realized there was nothing more for him,
Than what was left in another life.

Yesterday, I could not see the seed in the tree.
Its noise had fainted beneath the hymns and hums of the savannah,
Its color had faded into the hues.

Shouts came out as whispers,
And whispers came out as silence.
The silence overlooked itself, and was overlooked,
And the sun set thousands of times without good-bye.

There was time enough for goodbye.

The flame might never have gone out—
It might have flickered until dusk,
Still patient.
Ever patient.

And one drop might not have become thousands.
It might have fallen thousands of meters, skin tight,
Bracing for an impossible impact,
Still hopeful.
Ever hopeful.

Cubs become lions,
And grass begs to be trod.
Color begs to be colored, and noise begs for its voice.

Today there is nothing but field and jungle.
Today, there is nothing but sand and its many toys.
Today can remember nothing but your last name,
And your last face.

It thinks your last face was beautiful.

Your body will not break, your body cannot break.
Your laugh can only soar, and your eyes can only glint.
On your back will rest a thousand tons,
A thousand tons too few.

Today has time but begs for your haste.

Tomorrow, the lions become cubs.

If it had any other color, its color would be gold.
Cracked and twisted
Walnut-wood sliced and sanded smooth above,
Curved and twisted into four legs beneath, visible only to those who look.

If it had any other smell, its smell would be honey-sweet and thick.
Its smell would halt and command: twisting and piercing through their noses.

If it had any other touch, its touch would be paper brushed by fingertips.
Its touch would invite their caress: requiring their memory of its smooth rough.

If it had a taste, its taste would be coffee strong enough to be wise.
Its taste would grin: salivating, sour citrus and sweet sugar.

If it could ask for anything, it could think only to ask
For more time; for more room to love;
For more time to cry over the love it gave;
For more time to cry over the love it was given and heard given to the rest;
For more time to wish for more time.

But there is no more to give,
And there will never be.
They’ve given all they have, and all they had is all that was left.

Tomorrow will come and go,
And the next day will come and go,
And the next.

The last colors, the last smells, the last touches, the last tastes
Will have no one left to hold, no one left but each other;
They will fade, like everything has.

And the last color left will be gold.

All I could remember
Was the skin around her waist
And the rose on her cheeks.

I had forgotten
The silk, chocolate hair falling from her shoulders as she leaned forward to whisper;
The ruddy, marbled skin that checkered her palms;
The sweetness on her breath;
The tightness of her legs;
The wide, stolen eyes that had not yet blinked at mine.

I had forgotten the blink;
The explosive, the gunner, the gnarly;
The loss and the red that colored it;
The full and the wrong.

I had long forgotten the empty.
The opaque, the tall, and the gray.
The deep, the full, and the thick.
The cold winters and cold Falls
That were far away just now.

The bricks and beams sitting quietly,
The sweetness on the air,
I can remember now.

I can remember now the warm summers, the thin, the light;
The tickle of my hair grazing my shoulders as I lean forward to whisper;
The parchment hands and freckles on my knuckles;
The heavy, wet breeze painting my cheek;
The first smile and all the others that took its place;
The tightness of my own gut;
The lightness of my own heart.

And I will forget, as has always been done.
But when I can, I will try.
I will try:

All I could remember
Was the skin around her waist
And the rose on her cheeks.