Your poetry has sailed,
mist hangs soft as a feather with the sweetest ache.
Some call it broken;
a creature that pushes pain
leaving streets empty of flowers,
like how the sea erased your footsteps.
Never has the tide been so cruel, then taking your footprints,
chipping away echoes in my heart.
– Of a story told in woven yarn, of a boy and girl, and the colour red;
in threads of crimson and pink, blushing into obsidian skies,
where children know how to hold the moon close to their chest,
like fire spinning in all directions on the first day of August.
A place doors forget to close,
exposing our love, carved deep into stone.