I hear what
I heard then
as though words
keep washing ashore 
bringing with them 
little tiny treasures 
some sparkly some
smooth some rough 
but each bauble 
has been somewhere 
before found here
and isn’t that 
too just us

We frequently sell
what we have 
be it flesh
friendship or fame
I don’t blame 
nor ever shame 
anyone for selling 
what they have 
for when the 
book of life 
is finally tallied 
we are all 
just really whores
aren’t we though 

I don’t think 
that I ever 
will find another 
love like you 
for you I 
never found but
you found me 
when love comes 
as a surprise 
been first friend 
it simply goes 
and always grows 
like a flower 
or a tree 
or a cloud 

I’m feeling small 
nary a bump 
or a blemish 
not quite invisible 
certainly not inviting 
much less rock
or even stone 
nor a pebble 
smaller than that 
maybe just dust 
for dust is
just about all 
that dust might 
hope to be 

We miss what
we miss when 
we miss it
not a moment 
too soon or 
ever too late 
for missing is
when missing must 
never before but
almost always after