i sit quietly so not to wake the bees.
and is it raining where you are and are
your flowers blossoming.

today
i watched a poem unfold that reminded me
of you and i grabbed it, put it in my
pocket. brought it home.

i wrote sleep but threw it away.
i could not find a proper ending.
and madness becomes the fading of you

becomes all that which i cannot bring
myself to write about. to lie about.
i miss the way your spirit lingers

after you've left the room. i miss your
shadow who is always somehow three steps
ahead of you and to the left

exactly where my heart is. this is the
honesty lies only dream about. this is me
waving goodbye with both hands broken

tucked neatly into pockets, wornout by
leaving and by being forgotten. ships,
forever sailing in search for the safety
of a harbor.

and this is me
remembering not to wake the bees.
and all of the poetry that brings me
closer to you.

this is me
coming home.

11/30/2003

Author's Note: unfinished.

Posted on 11/30/2003
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