I have love that stutters on the edge; in
lines of chalk bent around the figure here
ghosts linger, waiting for another dear
to gnaw away tomorrow and fresh skin.
see, you marked upon a canvas so thin
and fluid that sheets, scents left from last year
took whole seasons to fade, to disappear
into folds of paper and soft chagrin.

those I left behind with purpose remain
scattered around, but you cut off that hair
I loved and left. I found a simple thought
somewhere in my head, "come home all the same";
lashes curled some thousand miles from there
but faint memories lost when ships are caught.