even in death, his last breath was poetry
existing in the wind
and on the breeze of
"it used to be likes"
forever remembering,
yet never reliving
his life
will never be what it used to be like.

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me, your poetry.

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me your poetry.

As the future ripens in the past,
so the past rots in the future --
a terrible festival of dead leaves.

There are times in our lives when we have to realize our past is precisely what it is, and we cannot change it. But we can change the story we tell ourselves about it, and by doing that, we can change the future.

I wanted the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,

whoever I was, I was

alive
for a little while.