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The breeze came up and tapped me on the shoulder,

 I turned to face it, but it had already passed me,

Changing direction it came and nudged me down the hill,

The sun had sent it,

To tell me that she’d be going soon,

And I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As the sun put on her evening show,      

And dusk crept in to take up the day,

Night hesitated to swallow up the mountain,

The animals ate their evening meals,

And began to think of bedding down.

 

I wanted to stay,

I wanted more time with the mountain,

The wind nudged again and reminded me,

I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As I headed down,

I looked around,

Trying to remember every scene,

To commit to memory the place where your ashes now played,

I’d never be here again,

Not in this way,

Not with you.

 

I’d better not be caught up here alone.

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glimpses

 sometimes I see glimpses of other worlds

they are just movements or patterns seen in my peripheral vision

out of the corner of my eye, a dark column moves

a shadow has dimension

I feel a cat jump onto the bed when none lives here now

a window frame reminds me of a place I've never been

a smell of ... what? I can not name it or remember it's place

I look up and hours have passed without my noticing

the sun has set but I'm still basking in it's warmth

I feel a caress, but is it just a memory?

small movements in my otherwise still rooms

a tapping from the hallway

meant to draw my attention away or to push me back to now?

just glimpses 

even alone, not truly alone

The book of our love.

 When I said "we need to talk", 

I was asking for your help,

 your love, your input, your phrases, and arguments.

 I knew we had fallen off the same page,

I wanted to ask you to make some revisions.

But you just closed the book.

You didn't want to finish the story.

You pulled the pages out and threw them in the fire.

I was on those pages. 

I was on the ones that went in the bin.

I was on the ones that were thrown into the wind.

I was on the ones that were crumpled and discarded.

I'm writing a new book now. 

But you still mark the pages. 

Like a stain, a water mark made of tears.

There's still more to be written. 

The single volume you destroyed still informs the series.

Writing you out of the story hasn't been as easy. 

I've made mistakes that can't be erased, 

but they are in that other book.

This one is still a rough draft,

but writing it without collaboration hasn't been easy.

Your editing isn't kind and it isn't constructive. 

I want to build. 

What is your new book going to say?