Crooked starlight bent into shapes, sparkling eyes, from a distance as tears from lonely travelers who’ve trekked the constellations of northern skies. May the doves sound their cries under the melancholy sky. Can you reach up and touch the ice cold waters, rippling with merfolk from armada to archipelago, reefs afloat on millennial seas. Crooked starlight bent into shapes we don’t often see, but resolve to embrace the dark bright tears of newly rekindled joy. May the doves sound their cries under the melancholy sky.

Icicles whisker the eaves of houses, lengthening in the dripping daylight Loosening and letting go, eventually.

Your fingers in mine I linger on your face, slowly I navigate your body; The memory of your skin More than just a memory The unmeasured flood of pain How losing you has robbed me. But then everything you’ve Made of me remains, and Why not? Can’t love spring Up from frozen ground, taking Root from sleeping seeds Rising up again with time, A little rain, and the Patient healing of slow Seasons in the sun.

Beads of sweat collect on his forehead eventually dripping into his eyes and ears until he laughs, silently, shaking his head. Waiting until he hears the sound of rain, distantly: a dim ring on the big brass bell the choirmaster keeps ready for him, the quiet boy, to strike the hour.