How do you get over the fact
that some stories are dead?
That what is left for you to do
is to play them over and over in your head?
How do you lie to yourself
when you cannot forget the truth?

How do I keep these thoughts
away from the wind?
How do I pretend
that I, too, can spread my wings
and fly no matter how heavy I feel?

This rare, watchful companion,
what is it pointing out?
A light from a distance.
It whistles and dances and then lifts me up
so I can clearly see
that what's gone is gone
and there is nowhere to go
but through that light.