So in moments of cello
and measures of
rendezvous,
Dvorak concertos &
adagios too...
in moments of breath
when reading the lines,

it's your hands holding
a set of strings,
and afterwards, then
mine

I dreamed I was
covered in salt
  from the sweat that
it took to
pull you to the
finish line:

where I saw strangers
& wildflowers
and anger
and laughter
and street lights
bathing
happily ever-afters

where I saw sadness
& take-backs
and widows
and crime
and remembered
it's been
just 2 years since you
died.

Don't worry,

I've been here before,

lying in canopies
of 'where'd you go' and
'what have I done?"

I'm not immune to love-fall
or love-hope
   or even the fall-out -

and there's no
modesty to my
afflictions

don't worry,
I've been here before
and I'm not willing
   to
     wait
       in
          hesitation.

When I've been on my own
in a park where the sun is finally
starting to warm my arms
and I  can see the veil of grief-chill
pulling back, about to reveal her
cities and her sidewalks
built in dirt

And I'm miles into the run
   of things
and I'm even further into my own head:

I'm sure that there are other runners
out there
who wish they
       could also
run from the dead.