Young fondness mine,
I haven't written for you, of you, with you in mind,
too much self imposed mutedness on the whole affair
yet there was something weighted there.
In the belly of it you were my first love.
I saw all I couldn't have, and why -
I saw the lightness, as cast shadows, of who I am.
I was married last month, to a life, and a man, and a family I chose.
It's a funny thing -
knowing you and I will never be
despite being dead long ago.
Yet I'll still hold you somewhere quiet
in our old
fresh skin and bone,
in the songs of my youth,
in the bittersweetness of it,
in the idea we bulls could fix that china shop.
And I recall all the overwhelming love that girl had to give -
off the grid,
as axes flew,
as airway stopped,
as something wicked stirred
because you were there, because she knew no other way to show love.
In the prayer room of a crumbling temple,
we never stood a chance.
I don't call to you now for more than my own clarity -
yet I thought you should know
I still walk with you sometimes, in the thick of a joyous life.
I was married last month.
You are never forgotten, but you are no more.