A day is nothing special
One of three hundred and sixty-five
The preservation of a day has not the power to revive
Not even remembering the day of your birth from when you were alive

You were a shepherd
Someone I followed incontestably
Someone I trusted to guide me to safety

You were a new pasture
Someone far off that I thought would be different
You had a wolf hiding in the bushes

-

"Anywhere but here" is what was on your mind
The thing is, I'm still here
Your dreams had no intention of including me in them

You were boarding planes and driving far away
I was boring and driving to coffee shops
I just couldn't hold your interest

You had bigger things on your mind
You didn't bother to ask what was on my mind
I think you would have found
Some common ground

-

I fell to the riverbed having fallen for you
You had already pulled your feet out of the water

You stayed on the dock of disenchantment
While I touched the bottom of disillusionment

-

I've never said a word to you I didn't mean
You never meant a single word you said to me
I can't blame you for it though,
Transparency, of words and of heart, has gotten me nowhere

You meant everything you said, except I lost it all in transmission
And I found myself making up the messages I missed

-

You were summer
Sepia stained, longer than it felt like, innocent and sweet

You were fall
Starved of warmth, not long enough,  the moments leading to a freeze

-

Before you, I didn't know how to feel
After you, I never wanted to feel again

She was wild like skinny dipping at midnight, stars watching overhead and falling in love with moonlight. The way it lay upon her skin made the ocean envious of her depths within and sometimes between us. She was my sister, not in blood but in orbit. A Venus to my Earth, forged from the same collapsing star and if the universe was in fact to be infinite then this moment would happen again, and again, and again an immeasurable number of times. I found comfort in this thought, knowing though our existence was meaningless, it was still full of feeling, and this feeling, right now, it insisted on existing forever.

But what of warm winter,
where the grass hasn't a chance
to whiter and die,
like the rest of us,
where a single meadow wildflower,
grows with wavering courage beneath
the thin, fretting frost.

Not yet cold enough
for it to finally go along,
with the birds and my father,
yet suffering so that the chill,
Oh, that frightful chill,
penetrates the very cells that
allow it to carry on.

And what of the wayward wanderer
Treading without direction,
with spirit breaking and
eyes heavy with knowing,
mind numb as their fingers,
lumbering (and) without knowing,
crushing its perseverance.