at the end

what will become of me

when my last ache disappears

when the final tear rolls

at the end of my thread

lies a castle in crumbles

a stone wall in shambles

a heart torn to shreds 

on the frayed tip of my life string

are the fingers that reach

yet unable to touch

the love I once knew 


pinprick of shine

in hopes of widening the pinprick of shine

when fallen into darkness,

she told her tale.

aiming to stretch the eye in grief

for other dwellers to see.

gazing into midnight at all hours

you still see stars.

sparkles against the black felt

blanketing you in cover of ache.

her story as witness

that even a glimmer is an opening.

a wormhole into another world

where you find passage into 

dawn of rising sun.

cemetery gates

I answer the call


your voice will rattle through me.

walk into my outer skin

like a ghost haunting this house.

I knew you would penetrate,

stabbing as you do,

not in intent

but in essence.

I cannot near you.

I must leave you graveside –

last dirt tossed

on tomb stone engraved

with your name and mine.

I hope you stay bound

to this graveyard.

making a home

amongst the midnight flowers.

dancing on the soft grass.

in the fog of your heart

find peace.

but I am not of ghosts.

I am of the living

and as I leave I look back


you’re not following

back through

cemetery gates.

this is ever after

careful in my climb 

I looked out over that great mountainside 

out into the heavens 

and it was then, 

it was then I knew 

we are part of ever after.

just as 


are a part of me.


never turning to ash 

that I scattered 

or cinders that I buried with her body.

you are still part of where I am.

I don’t need to climb cliffs 

or sit on top of clouds 

to know you again.

I can feel you in the breeze

wrapping your arms 

inside my heart 

as the ache 

of my missing you.

in time

in between the spaces of breaths 

is where time lies. 

in unmoving motion 

flowing low in tides 

allowing air to float over. 

patient for the notice 

tucked away to tick 

without care for tomorrow. 

as, once the pockets 

that surround time’s palms, 

those bursts of breath, 


so too 

does time.