All things must come to an end,
they say.
This place already feels hollow
without you.
A hall of echoes.
I miss you,
even as you linger.
I am capsised,
by this primal urge,
Once abandoned,
nearly forgotten,
reborn in your irreverent grace.
I discover myself marooned.
Cast out.
A Castaway,
on this island you sacnctioned,.
It is only what I am owed,
The inevitability,
of my own privateering.
Machinations of unreliable pursuit...
My imagination,
as ever,
running away with itself.
You were a landfall,
of sorts.
Painting yourself an unlikely comrade,
silently synching oars,
navigating parallel waters.
Finding purchase (purpose?)
on the cruel waters
of this devious digital sea.
Would haves,
cresting as could haves,
breaking into should haves,
spilling,
anticlimactically,
onto indifferent shores.
A filmy release,
A ghost froth,
delivering its spent intention,
unto shifting sands,
etching itself but briefly,
before its memory is consumed,
and ferried off,
by the relentless gravitation of the tides,
by the eternal gravity of time.