Sometimes, I catch myself
wondering about you
on some moonless evenings
or misty mornings, drifting-
where have your pages brought you
on some ride in the wind
or tail of a comet’s end.
Somewhere
hidden beneath the shadow of stars
thinking
who’s reading you now.
Whose hands walk
the landscape of your soul.
A borrowed moment
inhaling your scent
and leaving fine, little circles
of fingerprints
much softer than mine.
Sorry if
I left you-
like letters I burn in the fireplace
while watching the ashes float in winter air
and fall sadly to the pavement. Like rain
remembering the sweet hours.
The blur images of innocence
and immortality you believed
then, but honestly, I realize how beautiful
it was
and I kept you
for awhile but good things never last.
I wonder
who’s reading you now,
whose mind can fathom
the deeper meaning of you.
Whose hands were
much cleaner than mine.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
