3.03 am, I lean into the silence, it gives the world back.
counting the mountains, stood between our happiness, a hundred thousand.
the ink stained frayed hems, of once white cotton shirt sleeves, reveal her first love.
against the sunlight, still a pinhole in her blouse, but the flowers, gone.
a winter sunrise from the 52nd floor, new day, new city.
she’d only dive in where the sea had gently warmed the sea’s old grey face.
seventeen fence posts, severing the evening sun, we watched, we waited.
we sit here waiting, three hundred and thirty three, let new songs begin.
barely six years old, when we dismantled the sun into our pockets.
our fingers entwined, all that survived our silent continental drift.
she’d lain there for days, heart crossed with broken branches, ankles graced with leaves.
sticky clementines, crushed against hot summer skin, tracing every curve.
somehow she reached in, beyond the din and the dust, lips against my heart.
the descending veil, gracing every leaf and blade with glistening kisses.
I saw everything, torn white dress, tired broken heels, and fading lilies.
haunting silences, the space between the words meant, and the words spoken.
a hairline fracture, on the lake’s winter mirror, they barely noticed.
another trespass, across the landscape of her barren, hidden heart.
the willow branch dips, in reverence more than fear, the river rages.
she held a mountain of directionless longing in each tired hand.
she would make notebooks, hand stitched from leather garments, stolen from lovers.
our scars are stories, a tactile braille epitaph left by each adventure.
her red dress, tattered, relinquishes its hot dye into her young skin.
my heart suspended, in her finely spun cobwebs, each thread, a doorway.
a thousand trumpets illuminate the silence, when our fingers touch.
silver moon descends, she draws me close and whispers, never stop dancing.
the dry crack of bone, cushioned by the soft blue drifts of daily practice.
an avalanche heart, tumbling down her mountainside, searing through her snow.
theirs, a perfect love, she died in new mexico, years before his birth.
on the railway bridge, we had never gone so far, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
fading, collapsing, into a future designed by distant strangers.
the collected rust on his grandfather’s toolbox told its own story.
she would photograph the buildings of her childhood, decaying, dying.
counting the moments, ten thousand three hundred and thirteen, all with you.
as she walked away, he watched the wind caress her tattered paper spine.
softly, she asked him, if I told you everything, would you still need me?
silver spectacles, discarded by the white worn porcelain basin.
static played backwards to unravelling film reels, their truths forgotten.
her fingers clutching a photo in slow motion, his final capture.