No longer am I a
person who laments so harshly
the absence, the empty space that
you trail behind you like stardust
Grains of who you were to me
(of who you’d like to be)
Your heart, once rawboned and sick
with the wish for something like love
Once it had so many rooms
of silver monuments in sacred tombs
you held all your old notes there
to your precise design,
to feel, to write, to rhyme
No longer am I a
person who looks too far back —
I see it now
the stars from the black
to divide from the firmament
through songs made of tin
all the pieces string together
all the words have gone thin
Rachel Browne 