Leftovers from stories barely touched.
friend, I should have loved you
like water –
pour fountains over your cupped hands
pray a smile is all it takes
Nobody really knows the language
of a final moment,
there are no markers
to delineate the last time you share a world.
Heartbeats are not prophets.
I watched you foray into the unknown and
I thought to myself, “the drift will circle
him back to me.
We will laugh at his fooleries
over a plate of weevil-infested beans
and one more sultry joke.”
I should’ve known – just now, Kings
are dying like flies.
Tragedy is a probing finger, steeped
in oils too heavy, too dark –
my city is a overactive graveyard
You, my lofty friend,
have been busy-bodied
And I have been taught-
That everyday is goodbye,
that there are no remedies for leftover stories
that one poem cannot say forever for us
that I’m glad I loved – but perhaps I could have loved
a little more like