I’m thoroughly bummed out about the idea of you leaving.
This will cartwheel in my brain for awhile.
I obviously cheer for your well-being on any capacity.
Impermanence is the way, but you’re so brief with it, as if permanence could take hold.
That is a folly that fluffs up your starched white sleeves.
You may as well let impermanence take its course
And not rush it along coarse deserts of discomfort
Where habit keeps you
Where you lean against the tree
Despising the moving clouds for being in you
And making you their rain filled
Sad runner boy
And you look good
Behind your smoke screen
And your tears and your wine bottle
And your hands in flour being whisked with the salt from your face.
The string that holds you up
Like a well loved book
And now it takes all of your strength
Your well is empty
And, no I don’t want to refill it
But you don’t subscribe to
The water maker either
And you hate the clouds that are in you
And you won’t bring your hand
To your mouth
Or inch away from the cliff
Where you enjoy your mulled wine
Your tear filled dough
Your sweet vertigo.
Death becomes you.
And yet, you are very much alive.