she wears me upon
her withered hand:
an angel's halo
with no beginning or
end —
infinite.
she didn't like
metaphors
or goodbyes
but he brushed away the
drops of jupiter
twinkling on her
face,
promising to
return but it was
just a fool's
errand
and now i am
a memoir of
reminiscence;

because he is
dead but he is
not, he is
gone but he is
here, he is
a ghost
alive with
remembrance,
a memory preserved;

she wears me upon
her withered hand:
the crown of a
king lost in battle
and she
grazes me with her
lips and
trembles
because soon i
will be a
metaphor and
she will be the
goodbye.