Let’s pretend these sheets are empty
and that I’ve died or something equally as irreversible.
Flown away with the last of the sparrows,
or carried by an autumn breeze.
Perhaps pulled into the depths of a surging wave,
or lost in the darkness of a grotto.
Running an old dirt path,
where thoughts of you cannot follow
and try to plead my return.
In years from then,
when I’ve forgotten the feeling of sunlight on my skin,
and when your prints finally leave my lips,
I’ll rest in peace,
knowing I saved you.
