I went to find your place in the woods today
but as I rounded the bench near the
fray of trees I couldn’t find the fallen log
where we sat for so long that i became the cold lichen too,
colored like an overexposed photo
pale and unmoving, drawn to and
at the mercy of the elements. I  was overexposed as well,
not just because i chose to wear only a sweater in the
waning days of autumn but
because I drew out these spider silk memories for you
to see, me, as only my sheets and bathroom floor see.  

Part of me expected to find you among the trees,
looking for a new mossy place to
watch the walkers and the swans from,
thinking as you smoke away thoughts of
a current past given up fast to the ether.
before the sun sets, you’ll be with those memories,
lost to the ever presence of an unrelenting time.
I suppose the cold will keep you inside for a while
until the womb of your flat can keep you no longer,
and drives you out, back into your space in nature.
and when you find it,
you’ll see your fallen perch has finally hit the ground.

I found my own perch, looking for yours
and watched the smallest of birds hop
between the edges where the water meets the damp land and
I suppose one day you’ll again sit among the faded leaves
watching as your smoke, breath and body heat make
fleeting picture clouds for you to read.

so I rest here with a sachet of tobacco, some rolling papers and
tumbling thoughts to ease the strain.
and while i sit supposing, you suffer in barbarous silence.
But the one thing I’ve learned from being force fed
everyone else''s woes and crumbling glories:
its hard to sew a wound
under seven layers of skin.