oblation #2

The April rain you wake to puts a chill in everything, the cold red brick and the concrete, the bustling leaves and memory’s residence where we exist as if our crimes didn't matter, all of our theories saying this is not what I bargained for, the heart stopping for entire moments out of love for another, the flowers pointing to themselves when everything seemed possible, and I understand now that plainly I have held you, the careful lettering of purple notes telling me so. I am so lightly here but so acutely there. Nothing can stem the steady acceleration of the past, not even sleep that draws the restless, dissatisfied body into fall and winter, not even the hot, tense dreams we wake from to find that we're still just past the world's edge, jumbled and directionless.