Signs of you exist everywhere.
My walls, my shelves, my music —
each physical and intangible characterization of me —
feel tarnished. Blighted.

If only these walls could speak;
they’d tell of the laughter
that emanated from us
as sweet sleep eluded our racing minds
and cold feet never warmed.

The windowsills, adorned with momentos,
carry the weight of my heart,
the power of the Nantahala river,
and the sweetness of a friend.

My sanctuary,
the metaphorical holy ground on which I spend
more time than I do with any human,
feels cluttered. So much of this place
I shared with you.
Too many songs remind me of you,
and too many favorites you introduced,
each one woeful in it’s own right, but even more so now.

I’ve cleaned but have not decluttered.
I don’t want to change the space,
but falling asleep to only dream of you
makes me wonder if a part of you
has never left this place.

Did you feel my pulse through the water yesterday?
A blue heron did, revealing herself to me, slowly.
Her mere existence gave proof of my ponderings,
and the truth rooted me to the rock I perched upon.

Maneuvering through this world
on legs that feel like twigs
and feet as heavy as cinder blocks,
I’m trying to see more and spin less.