what was lost, is not

you were meant to die

you were not meant to die

we were both so alive

even though, without modern means

your poor head, my aching conscience

may have felt the drop of earth

far earlier

the stars so alight, over our premature sleep

we did not think we could lose

and still

life shows us in picture cards

‘having a wonderful time, wish you were here!’

how tender the road without direction

how still the clock in hospital room

counting down, looking up

explanations for frailty

pistacho shells growing in number

blood coursing through our stride

the winding path and sudden start of deer

their black eyes, wells of ink

reproaching

if I had to do the same again I wouldn’t change anything

but maybe, plant better roots

for sickness can shake the most stalwart

where everything is thrown around and

stooping to bend…