once
in still
another wrote
his name
upon my soul
a lovely shade –
no different
than my own
cursive drew
across and through
back and forth
(remember)
the stiches were so small
I never knew

the almost lines
of future lives
the need
where grief would tarry
for never would
my story
love deny
dots and dips
and slashes –
longing curlicues’
are weaved
into the rhythm
of a sigh

. . .