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)