Unwilling to erase,
I move among the scattered remnants,
palming each shard of what refuses to end,
my hands learning the contour of you in the dark

Inside that quiet wreckage, I go on, inhabited by you

If what remains of me
should weigh upon you however faintly,
would that not be reason enough to turn?

A heart inclined toward a single name,
lingering beyond its own season did you ever imagine such duration?

Even now,
I rehearse us as love,
as if naming could preserve
what has already slipped its form

And if you should pass into some other weather

may you falter
on the place where I persist, unarriving, undelivered to any other

In the end,
let me not be a season you have outlived,
but the climate you never leave