as the walls caved in
and the ceiling grew mold.
The air is all I've left
to hold.

I stayed with him
as the wind blew cold.
And I froze in place
without a face
to weep or smile
or feet to move me
from the wreckage
of the fallen tiles.

I stayed with him
in the reverie.
Buried, this rose
under the April snow.
Covered it up
till this turned to dust
in the sun.

I left him
with no storm or flurry,
just flew off in a hurry.
Left no note or line,
no handmade script.
I gave no sign
like all the times
I’ve let slipped.