Like hot summer veins,
And everything dropped
That turned mistake
Keeps dropping from
My white-gloved hand
In slower and sadder motions,
Like sand
Sifted to view
Each granule.
But there was a reason
These mistakes
Were made. There was grace
In the way
Love's promises each day
Were fulfilled,
In effortless flow
With all that is
And endlessly turns
To love.
Perhaps the crinkle of
A smile, who knows?
Wide eyes, a thickness
Of hair ...
So little remains it's like it
Never occurred,
That I wandered a field
Of youth's infinite possibilities
Alone, without the one
I had disappeared within.
