What would I say to you that would
give you pause; a moment to suffer
for only me. In the end I think
you stopped suffering long ago
over anything. What good are tears?
You speak of stars and I tell you
I have seen them like dust scattered
on a cold night in North Carolina.
Had I known then that you loved them
I would have carried them from the
moutain to give to you later when
we lay in a dark room wishing for light.
Words are unstable and mean nothing
but we deal in them like tarot cards
predicting futures or writing pasts.
I still miss you.
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