The woods were all shafts of late afternoon light, slipshodding through canopies and across singing marshes of toads and crickets, dripping as warm honey drips, Collecting in angular golden pools, Much like how delicate gold chains might fold over and into themselves in order to Reflect, We reflected that the day was nearly done, And we held hands as we walked back home, And you told me things that made my heart expand, And now you are gone And it rests With an ache that is wholly Unfamiliar. I'm just a pile of thin chain, made brass by neglect. No, I haven't stopped thinking about you Yet.