Aria of Was by Chris Crittenden

leaves like fading fiery palms

melt through long goodbyes.

if only lovers exited as well--

and yet we cling on

with the audacity of tombs.

but we cannot kiss again,

no chisel to extend the warmth of our lips--

even if a pyramid remembers us

and our faces chance to rise

on a canvas of weeping sands.

rain knows to ripple

into a swollen oceanwide song;

and you and i also rippled together,

blending breath and ribs. 

but ours was a music alone,

a pas de deux of sealed storms.

what caskets store in their cold breasts

our unity has already destroyed.

Chris Crittenden writes from a tiny fishing village, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light.  He teaches ethics for the University of Maine, blogs as Owl Who Laughs, and is a Teaching Artist at the Poetry Coop.