we still rise to the same sun
we still sleep under the same moon
we still read the same words
we still hum the same tunes
we still feel the same joy
we still feel the same blues
we still play the same songs
we still know this to be true:

we still forget to let go
but we still manage to say i love you.

Saudade)
This is a division;
a dissection of blood cells;
a severance of the colors on a canvas.
Separating waters - Moses' staff in the air.
We are singing parting songs into each other's eyes
because we are slurring our words across the pavement.
One final moment slips through the palms of our hands,
flows through the back of our minds,
and calls our hearts to break.
This is goodbye.

Retrouvailles)
And, after all of this,
I will see you again in
the brightness of dawn,
the twilight of dusk.

I will see you again in
the blossoms of Spring,
in the fervor of Summer,
in the colors of Autumn,
in the snowflakes of Winter.

I will see you again.
This is hello.

A 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera
A mixtape
Valentines Day

A tuxedo
A seafoam green dress
Prom night

A starlit road
A taste of your lips
Spring

A weeping embrace
A slamming door
Summer

An empty bedroom
A bottle of gin
Autumn

A silent girl
A disturbed boy
Winter

"I don't love you like I did yesterday"

The Mill sits comfortably among the sea of red.
Unwavering, unyielding, and thriving.

Cafe Espresso and oolong tea.

The booths are occupied with
reminiscence of the glory days,
contentment between mothers and daughters and sons and fathers,
appreciation of music and art and literature.

All the while sunlight illuminated
the scarf and the starfish
of the girl across from me

as our minds were slowly revealed to one another.

It's birthday season
and the leaves are falling.

So it's kind of ironic.

Birth and death
in perfect harmony with one another.

Blossom all you'd like,
your leaves will turn
yellows and reds,

maybe sooner than you'd think.

All of the free spirits
are flying so high.
Happier than a child
on Christmas morning.

However,

the truth of the matter is
it'll all end

maybe sooner than you'd think

and it will flow like oil.

It will grip like a lion's jaw
sinking into the flesh of my neck.

Nothing's about to change.
The vicious cycle of
reminiscence to
recession to
unresponsiveness
is a gift that just keeps on ******' giving.

Until I have nothing left to give.

I'm finished.

When the
song bird
is gone;
when the
evening chills
settle in
your bones;
when the
hills are
too high;
when the
waters are
too deep -

the world
needs you
to let
your light
shine.