I ever was
but tomorrow
more

I read four words today.

Just four.

But their weight
stills
me.

I bow my head and
turn them
in my hands.

What are you asking me?
What are you trying to tell me?
What do you see?

I fold the paper.

I close
my
eyes.

Just four words.

I wrote four words today.
Just four.

I bleed my hours into them.
Each syllable
I
weigh.

Like lifting stones from a dry riverbed,
turning each
over
and
over,
until one feels just right
in my hand.

Carefully
carving,
studying
and playing
with each one:
  Which catches the light just right?
  Which plays well with the others?
  What are you trying to tell me?

But mostly,
I discard.

Four words.

All my labor for the day--
Just four words.

It was a good day.

Your coffee rings still
stain
the kitchen counter.

Pinned maps
of the vacation
we never took
         hang
                             crooked
  now.

Our pictures on the wall.
Shrines
to what we once
were.

I hold your forgotten
t-shirt —
this stubborn map
of you.

My fingers hover over
the 'send' button,
before
falling
into
my
lap.

Night seeps through
these windows
and your memory
burns.

Flashing
like
broken
film.

I feel
nothing now.

But once—
the sun was fire,
the water cool.

Once…
I heard the wind.
I felt a feather.
I swam.

Once, I fell in love.

But now just this drifting,
this drifting,
away.