his hands are full of stories
he may never get to tell
and wandering the streets today
he must've thought they fell
the memories are staggered
shorter, closer, weaker
s t i l l
together their depiction
was a life he had until
he sat upon the stones
and let the cold into his head
erased the only thoughts
that reassured he wasn't dead
but now the days are passing
with a quickening delay
and everything he hadn't said
is chasing him away
so if you see him running
tell him time is running too
that if he can't outrun it
there is nothing he can do

flames lick the ceiling
the barn door crackles and splits
he reaches for her

people are not
to be saved and
they say girls are
best wild and free
or wild and reckless
but I was always the
cabin with an open
door, an inviting
bed, a warm
hearth, I
stayed
put and
did my life
by the books
still wanted to
s a v e y o u f r o m
something, yourself?
other people? the world?
I see pictures of you and
feel a sense of failure,
or loss or grief or
frustration but
you were
never mine to
save, never a thing
to be saved, never wanted
to be saved, never asked to be
saved and letting you go was akin
to releasing the leash on wild, wild beast.