weltschmerz

the wary thought

of october graves

in autumn sunrise

her name and yours

on an open letter for

the future young, as

old boats unfurl their

paper sails and the

breeze flows north

so often they whisper

—

“oh, i wish you had

never said a word”

their lacklustre ire

lesions seeping into

bandages and coffee

grounds and the very

last time you saw her

alive that day, of the

very last time you ever

felt alive, that fateful day

—

what more is left now?

statues still into monuments

and the gentlest reminder

of a violent decision that

carved another number

into your mausoleum, and

hers—it’s a strange way to

love, to unravel with her skin;

to twist, and to fade, and to

be the breath she always saves.