, , , , , , , , ,

of nothing
not much do I have
tho i beg you
to take what you will
go without speaking
let me a kiss
the warmth of your name
still burning
my lips

of boxes
and winters
ten thousand years
i made of my life
one sweet yesterday –
coffee left stains
on the floor
where I knelt
burning my secrets

are scattered
high on a shelf
where once I kept photos
pieces of us
stored without thought
to where we might be –
or how far the stars
still to fall

. . .