Has it ever crossed your mind, / That this is just where you might end, / That the last steps you take, / Could be where you took your first.
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Indistinct years of you. / The one thing I ever saw: / A scrap of paper I’ve kept, / You wrote as much for yourself as for me.
We moved like steady figures detached from the / shadows that night, when we were princes for a / little while. So far away from here, longing for / more, until the light of day.
Dear Emily, / Stay with me as the day is dying. / There are things in me, / I don’t want to fell asleep with.
When the gypsy read my palm, / She traced down some line’s crease, / As it splintered and divided, / And then looked me in the eyes:
I know her now, through the words in the poems / that come with her name, through the drawings / the sentences have made. I know her twenty years / will last a lot longer.
Of all the words you said / These were the ones that could have saved us both / But you said them / Far too late
I’ll see you somewhere along the river, as this / hiatus ends and summer turns to fall. If you bring / your words I’ll bring pen and paper. It’s been a / lot of time and a lot of ache between the days that
There are marks, / Where we once walked, / In buildings, / Bridges and roads.
He held his breath to hold your hand, / To hear the words to the picture he’d seen. / Watched how you reached for your things to leave, / To walk a block to the car that would take you home