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The years
so massive behind us,
a slow-moving glacier of
tears and schemes
and chatter,
its shadow dragging across
this flickering
Now,

I stare at the brittle trees
and remember the day
on the beach,
when you spoke of growing
old with me

and youth was encased
in clear arrogance:
prism of heartsong,

it shifts only slightly
and the colors are gone.

How did I forget this?
I even forgot
what you said exactly.
I only recall
that the waves were a part
of your voice.
They were spiral souls,
battered and dizzy and
screaming to our world,
the blood of our ancestors,
its innocent ribbon tied
around our feet.

I didn't know then that
this would all mean so much,
and that life was a primal,
fleeting shout,

tiny shard of madness
in a shattered and loving void,

and we were infinite
and beautiful before the war,
before our tour of
magnificence and terror.

We are born in
a symphony of light,
but we leave through
a hall of forgetting.

Don't forget.
Please remember another day.

And if love is every god
then every god rebukes your pain.

Now where is the one,
strangely silent,
the one behind the brass door,
counting our heartbeats,
waiting to reclaim our essence,

waiting in a
gallery of ancient souls?

Drown its calling,
like waves that scramble
our babbling fears.
Is this too much to ask,
or do you need to go?

You were a hero just
for showing up.

Just one more thing:
I love you.

Patricia Joan Jones