what I remember: a country road, your wild
will to live far beyond the ordinary, the cold way
you darkened your eyes, cutting as people
often do with whatever they long to do
away with: that last meal with some specter
from your past, the sharp glance burning
one or another 'almost' lover. Now, the only
wild seedlings in my life are in my garden —
they lay dormant, awaiting the moment I sprinkle
a few precious droplets from my favorite teapot,
regret slipping into the cracked earth again.
There is no victor that emerges. All is silent.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 1:32 AM UTC
what I remember: a country road, your wild
will to live far beyond the ordinary, the cold way
you darkened your eyes, cutting as people
often do with whatever they long to do
away with: that last meal with some specter
from your past, the sharp glance burning
one or another 'almost' lover. Now, the only
wild seedlings in my life are in my garden —
they lay dormant, awaiting the moment I sprinkle
a few precious droplets from my favorite teapot,
regret slipping into the cracked earth again.
There is no victor that emerges. All is silent.
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