I.
There is a memory ingrained in
every fiber of this flesh,
of this granite.

It is silent in this breeze
on this clear day and I
still hear your whispers
through earth and silk.

II.
And taking my hand I carve
a place beneath my skin to
remember you by when
I start to bleed, when I
start to remember you
and I are the same -
immovable and
no less as stoic.

III.
I've become lost,
but eventually I
will find my way
back home.

IV.
Years will pass and I
will find you with
shaking hands;
trace words into the
fibers of this earth, of
your silk.

07/31/2010

Author's Note: A revision of a revision of a revision. Maybe it's done. Maybe I'm done.

Posted on 07/31/2010
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