The sadness in the open rose
falls like petals to the path,
while you are somewhere else,
and I am nowhere near.
I hold on to the shreds
as a cicada’s husk
to a tree still clings
to a life not its own.
All maps are tattered
to an unstable memory–
which forms and reforms
until a landscape adheres.
Slowly I have fallen onto
a shapeless and empty road.
(September 15, 2018)
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