07.23.11 / 11:38 pm

he closed the door and walked out into the evening;
into swells of cicada song and a light breeze.
the street was still warm from the afternoon sunshine,
so he walked barefoot, weightless.

the sun led him to the river,
swollen from the rains, swift and dark.
and as the late august sun set deep in the west,
love and loss became fabrications, a myth,
just dusty museum pieces to tell children about.


i never loved anyone better than i loved you. and losing you was not part of the plan, though i should have told you that much, much earlier.