We live under the sun,
Its brightness warming us,
Leading us to every other minute,
One moment at a time;
It casts our shadow on the wall.
But in every moment we live,
We forget.
The shadows, they lengthen till dusk,
And vanish in the dark.
And we don't miss our shadow,
We don't remember.
That gentle touch that didn't leave a mark,
But marks our existence in the light...

Just as we don't always remember,
The gentle love shared with us
In a stranger's smile.
A smile, which with a helpful hand,
Lifts us up and tells us we were seen.
*A gentle touch that doesn't leave a mark,
But acknowledges our existence in this busy, busy world...

Narcissus gazed upon inky space,
dust reflecting golden starlight into his face,
and he sighed in discontent,
blowing air from his lips to disturb delicate ecosystems he had no place in.

the aroma of the dead and dying
lingers heavy in my bed,
yesterdays shirt and tomorrows hate draped across a chair like falling flowers,
like the ones on my desk, picked
with joy and anger, but that has long since faded and wilted,
giving way to the dead and dying, like me,
wrapped tight in blankets,
clinging to the tiny voice of mother, on the other end of the phone,
repeating the refrain, the chorus, homage to the homesick,
"Everything will be all right, with time."