I remember licking my wounds with intoxication
you witnessed my sentence
“I am going to be a great, great poet one day”
and to think some people don’t cry enough.

You were supposed to be there too, alongside,
endured and re-named for your creative burst of poetry, photography
and all your smiles seen from afar countries and distant planets
who can feel radiant energy pouring your everything
into this short life we are summoned to.

You were supposed to be there
when waking to the silence of dawn moving in
over the hillside and the smell of morning dew
smothering her silky skin over grass
through open windows
working her way into bed with us.

Where will you be
when I replant the tree they took from us
after that last night we shared under the full moon
lit up against contours of your eyes
still piercing my heart once a day
for each mile you lay from me tonight.

Where will you be
this Thanksgiving when I fly
home to New England introducing you
for the first time as my last love
when there is little between
I recognize as familiar.

You were supposed to be there
in the distance holding our creation
in the palm of your hands
a reminder that everything sacred can be preserved
instead of severing into footprints veering
at the first fork in the road.


Where will you be
when lost nights come walking in
through the front door
of this brick-layered
house of regret
arm in arm with forgiveness
when the world finally makes sense
and dreams come easy