The things I forget are simple. Not your face,
Or the color of your eyes (blue, with hints
Of grey and gold, like the sea at dawn.)
I forget the sound of birds marking the dawn,
the taste of salt, the touch of sun on my face.
I forget the shape of us. You left me only hints:
The tree outside my window that hints
of tangled limbs; the deep shadows at dawn;
the clouds that hide the moon’s face.
I face the sea, scour it for hints of you. Dawn is just a simple thing.
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On this perfect day
I watch you throw rock after rock
into a mountain stream,
Your words a constant flow, a stream
of consciousness; all day
I lean against this rock
and listen while the trees rock
the sky to sleep. Clouds stream
across the edges of the day.
What would I not give for another day, another rock, another murmuring stream?
The dogs of war are coming.
They slipped out behind my words
And are baying at the moon.
Who would have guessed the moon
Would be so long in coming?
You never heard my words.
And now I marshal words
To defend myself; only the moon
Sees the battle coming.
I am coming to take my words back from the moon.
That morning by the sea,
When all the ships were sailing blind,
You read me like a book.
I thought you must be blind.
I scratched your name out of my book
And tossed it in the sea.
I never wrote the book
You wanted. Your heart went to sea
And slowly mine went blind.
The sea is blind; she cannot read this book.
No desert is as sere
as empty space. Why do you weep?
This crossing is not free.
It never was; not free,
not without cost. You wander sere
and barren galaxies; I weep
and wonder, did they weep,
the stars, when spacetime set them free
to wander skies so sere?
Too sere, my heart. Love, weep no more: fly free.
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