Sinking Stones

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If you and I become sinking stones, 

raining through and obliterating all that we made a home, 

I think I’d rather just burn in the finality of this flight, 

turn everything to cinders and 

watch them evaporate one by one.

Because leaving even the smallest trace of us 

will be too much for me to breathe in, 

I would gather all the ash and dust 

and any speck of bone and try to 

shape them to their precise former beauty, 

try to breathe light and life into who already drew 

their last breath to say goodbye.

The last of me would toil away to bring back the dead

and be a man without a name to claim or a season to hold, 

studying every book I could find for the right order of words

to pray and pass along to pull you back from wherever 

we move along to when love just doesn’t seem to be enough 

but I gave all I knew how to give.

All that I couldn’t bear to let another call their own.

If you and I become sinking stones, 

sailing towards the fragile earth

and rendering this landscape unknowable, 

I think I’d rather scorch an entire continent beyond 

recognition than scar a city, 

watch every country we built become columns 

of smoke climbing and blacking out the sky.

Because leaving behind any standing ruin 

would be too much to take in, 

I would scoop up concrete, glass, and snapped cables, 

try to stitch and weld new territories 

under the cold glow of the shattered stars made with your leaving.

The last of me would surrender my name to try and 

breathe love and light into these artifacts 

to summon you back from whatever realm we move along to

when love cannot be enough to keep us together 

but I gave all that I knew how to give.

All that I would give you again.

Published 11 years ago

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