You Know, Those Of Us Who Leave

Sometimes There’s No One To Listen To What You Really Might Like To Say At A Certain Moment. The Paper Always Listens.

I Still Have Everything You Gave Me It Is Dusty On The Edges. It Is Slightly Rotten. I Guard It Without Thinking. I Focus On It Once A Year When I Shake It Out In The Wind. I Do Not Ache. I Would Not Trade.

I Do Think That All Of Us Think In Poems.

For You Who Came So Far; For You Who Held Out, Wearing A Black Scarf To Signify Grief; For You Who Believe True Love Can Find You Amidst This Atlas Of Tears Linking One Town To Its Own Memory Of Mortar, When It Was Still A Dream To Be Built And People Moved There, Believing, And Someone With Sky And Birds In His Heart Said This Would Be A Good Place For A Park.

Later Our Dreams Begin Catching Fire Around The Edges, They Burn Like Paper, We Wake With Our Hands Full Of Ash.