bonfire of dead
letters
unearthed and
torched–
sending specters to
their slumber,
we
breathless
blowing embers,
may dawn reach us
where we
shiver,
eyes shaded out
by smoke.
the past
stole a story
from the
past
and buried it
out back..
with laments we
still hold
near
in these hours of
heaviness.
flitting somewhere
in between
the day
and laments passed,
kindling any
ember
that may smolder
into memory.
wishing i could hold
your history,
not that it’d seal each
wound left,
by ones who hadn’t
mopped up
regrets
still seeping from
your chest..
all over
mine.
cross stitch
eyes,
a grin sewn into
quilt hem,
past held together with
old thread
draped over a
haunted
bed.
our height penciled
on wall,
just scuffs where
we fell..
while
carefree,
and if i don’t
blink
i see the past
so clearly
but not
me.
shrinking the
past–
down to
size,
reflecting on each
crease it
left,
letting go of
beliefs-
hopeful, yet
bereft.
hands in the garden 
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