These are the things we leave behind
in vanity or consideration of forgiveness
and the ones I leave for you
the photographs that are mostly of you
and the memories of towering passion
and elegant devotion
the will and testament in your name
duly notarized and signed for reference
waiting on the day to come
the echoes of laughter and conversation
and the songs you never heard
fading in the empty rooms
the remnants of walks with hands held close
and kisses stolen in every sweet moment
the recollection of loving caresses
you probably think of the madness
that took me in my grief and despair
but these are softer things I leave
the unused trip we were to take
that fateful day itself, to be entwined
in tender arms those days and nights
the letter by the bed, your name on the front
with heart-felt words and sincerest reverence
consecrated in your name
these are the things I leave behind
in lament and mourning
the ones I leave for you
I’m torn as to what I should do. I’m more than tempted to turn down the offer I got to move south and make music. But it’s an option. So is remaining in this area. Or returning to the desert I loved. Or simply vanishing from all existence and all contact, untraceable and forgotten. Becoming impossible to contact or find to any I have known, family or what remains of my friends. There is much temptation in that, and I know none would notice me gone for days or weeks, nor yet miss me in any meaningful way. A lot about that is appealing. I’ve already been forgotten by not just the one who mattered the most but by near everyone else I knew as well.
