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.
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