and I write about dispatch
that is a direct result
of you being beautiful and wonderful.
still in my chest
where a heart should go,
lies the shovel that you dug
and left as fossil.
I keep waiting
for you not to matter
but everyday, there you are,
mattering and musing.
oh well, I think concedeingly
condignly
refusing to lose sight
of the past, I guess, here we go.