this time of year things grow piercingly
into your heart; blades of grass push through
tender flesh and harden into sand-sharpened
needles that ache so delicately-

covered in spines, and ailing,
touching the face of the boy you have loved
and telling him softly "never forget that."

we wander through piles of photographs lost in time,
moments drifting off trees of held hands and cracked green bus seats
that are whispering the laughs of ashes
and the thirteen year old love for a best friend who
honestly knows why your heart is so sore.

we move on, we surrender things we loved and those
we loved,
I can take your hand and tell you all the things I want to believe,
but stagnant, I wonder how I will ever live,
lively,
with the hearts so dear to mine left so far behind.