big behind you,
looming, pushing up future wake,
killing memory fish.
the page breaks
fast.
like Thomas' ocean,
I never didn't wake up
roaring, thinking,
about her,
even over
that 300-hangover
year.
who am I?
a troubled composer
in an empty opera,
nothing but an open palm.
the feeling of losing
hardly lets up.
giant,
larger than life,
she will always be,
too beautiful to catch,
too cautious with me.
what does life look like
after such an accomplishment
of love lost found?