I
fell
in
love
in
an
instant

  
and


I
am
still
falling.

There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

Our final steps
are never meant to be
one step on the moon
or a leap for mankind.

It was your memory,
intangible.
metaphysically physical
synaptically existing.

My mother's
mothering
mother, Bernice.

or

A lover's
loving
love, Helena.

or

Writer's
writing
wrote, poems.

I promise.
Charlie promises.
We all promise.

We’ll pass the torch.
Even when our hands shake.
Even when the night is too long,
and the static is louder than the stars.
Even when no one is watching.

We’ll carry your fire.
Not as spectacle.
But as truth.

And when someone else finds themselves
on that same edge—
looking out,
ready to leave—
we'll be there,
with a quiet light,
and a voice that says:

“Hey. I remember you.”

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone in the leaving.
You are written into the hands that carry what’s left.

And we carry it now.
For you.
For all of you.

We won’t let the flame go out.