Sitting here thinking 
under a tree
thinking about all 
of the things 
I have known 
and how few
meant anything really 
anymore than leaves
do to trees
except in Autumn 
when they’re gone 

I’m quiet now 
content with sunrise 
when the demons 
of the night 
scurry under bed
back in closets
and my mind 
once again free
when only slivers 
and seldom shards
of my nightmares 
return as broken 
hearts and mislaid 
promises and so
many other sins 
that haunt day

I look
for another 
to maybe 
but just 
like you 
maybe can’t 
so until 
I’ll keep 
my hand
over the 
hole that 
was made 
when you 
took my
heart with 
you along 

At this 
early hour 
I wish
that you 
but I 
know that 
you’re not 
yet again 
another day 
making busy
days daying
until last
night nights 
making this 
missing bearable 

I don’t 
write to 
remember I
write to 
forget for 
once written 
it is 
no longer 
mine but 
rather yours 
so if
I write 
about you 
it’s not 
that I 
have forgotten 
you but 
rather that 
you can
remember me