Let me proffer my goodbye’s alongside meadow flowers
Press them between vellum, squeeze slow and steady
Till all moisture is fruited into papyrus, dried remainder
An outline of time, time that is gone, never to be unwound
These flat facsimiles of things once heralded dear and precious
No more alive, growing wild in field, swayed by wind
Nor completely relegated to ghost, for ghosts do not possess
Enduring presence, each day rented out to lessen tightening pain
Whomever promised wounds heal without knifes memory?
Lies we tell aching hearts, memory, a sluced jam jar
Holding years of you and I; crumbs become stale martyr
Become voices in time’s veil, with perpetual tugging haunt
You lost your ring in high grass. I said; I’m scared, superstitious
Is this our dying? And looking me full in the face you promised
No. Nothing kills us. We are permanence incarnate
But—that was not, no deep needle of ink, smudge proof
I lay dried flowers behind glass and press weight gently, gently
The galvanizing of loss, a drowning on land, staring sky
From my place below earth: a heart can still
Beat. Beat. Beat
Even as you dry into a semblance of existing.
For, with no moisture—nothing grows.
I am alive without and within, there are only empty rooms
Each holds a memory of us, the glass may be dusty or cracked
Holding tilted portrait in askance, distinction blurred
Somewhere in this elipsing world, a folded musical note
Playing our photo album in slow swell, until rising tides
Swallow time and all we ever were, turning pressed paper
And dried flowers feining death
With no recollection of themselves.