You carry your memories shaped in sadness, and the glad yellows of suns setting into seas of blue thought.
The ache of the weight of your life, the bareness of fatigue, the soft depression left by sorrow, a soul embossed with a notary’s seal, the truth that can be sworn then lost, a kiss in front of a stranger.
Sad that you have forgotten the what, or when, or where of Neruda’s beauty of a sonnet.
Yet you know the dark space between the shadow and the soul, the slowing of eyelids closing.
You who build hopeful temples to possibility, mirrors of light to warm yourself by the flame of offering, a dance born in sweet smoke, the incense of conciliation, supplication, the medication of desire.
Rest my friend, wherever you are and don't forget to remember when you get older and colder, it is only the winter of a new world.