daybreaksmiles

heaven is slung low brushing faces, gathering cherry pit debris

Along the county line, adjoining corridors of sweet tobacco and sorghm, a river twirls - shifting red clay, stones gleam beneath the current. I remain silt; tossed in her sightless wake.

your fingertips I liked best - blunt with work, and soft carding through my hair

Too often it was impossible to see the horizon; the way forever curled, sleeping, in the lines of our palms.

We split it all up silverware, furniture, life right down the middle.

six sets of silken skirts settling, slip'ry, on silver-satin sand

Your absence stirs grey pine needles; in the city it begins to rain.

adventures past nudge memories gently; when did we run out of firsts?

open open oh- pen up your thoughts, your reasons do not want freedom

Your mouth: a lily. Pure, sweet and floating lithe, just out of reach.

Words don't always come, but I've been writing you a letter that never ends because, even though you're gone, I still smell you in the coffee shop where we last talked, at your choosing, about anything except goodbye. You still weave memories into melodies of songs we shared, leave sunshine on my shoulders and frisson on my forearms as if to offer a celestial embrace. I dream of you often. One night, I was shocked to hear your anger at my admission that I felt sick of life. But I understood. Despite your will to live, you knew more than anyone how that feels. Sadness is a cancer of its own, and you didn't want me to fall casualty. Then yo

No, you did not run your fingers into the sewers to autograph your laundry Worry when your kitchen starts tapdancing? Too late by then.

Throw your extra arm into the trash! The world swims, the soil swims and genes will detemine that your hands will never be able to grasp anything by sixty at thirty you haven´t grasped your own life every pendulum of your feet will be a staggering wave every memory a silent room buried in a bed like a retiree waiting for the mailman with her emergency medicines