Bowing down settles our stagnant hearts,
little touch, palm to palm,
turn your face but do not leave.

Fickle world, consumed with history,
lesser truth, no permanence,
let me bathe with unsaid goodbyes.

Rainfall covets the familiar warmth,
I want to be strike by hurt and revival,
handpick the pieces of what you left behind,
return the name we borrowed from above.

By the end of it all,
leaving will settle in our stagnant hearts.