we only drain.
sirens and leaves,
a special pattern to the cement.
the lowly realization that
we are part of earth’s recycling act.

i drove over the summit yesterday,
where fog covered the mountains and

these are the trimmings, the
discarded fibers of being.

that place where i walked.
that spot where i stood.
that sky that held my hand.
not there.

we are not there.
we are here.
water running through and around.
metal and drains.
my skin touched his.

and now, it touches nothing.

this sad emptiness, this
oddly freeing moment, this
liquid continuum flowing freely,
yielding heartbreak and joy.