A warm breeze rolls in off of the road
vultures and passers by discussing
how love along a long enough timeline
makes a thanatologist of dreamers
makes sand and steam
of earth and sea.

We become part of the conversation
by fractions of inches
and cracks in the sidewalk
we tell the story of longing
to the ground and the grinding
ceiling fan.

Every prompt I see says
"in three to five hundred words"
and sounds without shape
tumble from my lips
mumble off my fingertips
scatter
marbles
lost
and roll in off of the road
to carry your name on a palanquin
royal procession
cherished relic
of my heart.

I cannot contain your glory
cannot make a reliquary of this skin
cannot offer up any temple you would accept
except every prompt I see says
your name
endlessly,
makes me
ever a student in
a changing field of study.

When they set side by side
the words to unwind you
from the song inside the mist,
when they can name the notes,
describe in detail
the frequency below your bones,
I hope they write it down,
in years and years of copperplate
thousands of pages
perfect and brittle and unmanageable
make a reliquary of my longing.
I hope there is something at the end of this
to give shape to all our struggle,
meaning to all the moments
where we empty handed
lay alone and awake.

I could always hear you
above the stuttering, shuffling crowd.
And I could always hear you
behind the back of my hand
sharp breath and roaring smile
and I could always hear you
again
if I had my way.