298 days is a long time
when every hour is counted
by the second.
Dear James,
I know
you've counted them too.
Did you know
that every drop of blood
every
crimson
teardrop
has cycled through your veins
since the last time
I saw you?
The same hearts
we wore on our sleeves
are brand new, unbranded
by anyone's touch,
yours
or mine.
Or did you know,
dear James,
that that star in the sky
- the brightest star -
could already be
out
of
light?
Its dying breath
is the last thing
we'll see
high up in the sky.
What a thought.
Dear James,
did you know
I never finished the poem
I began when you were here?
Perhaps one day
I'll add to it
or maybe
I'll
burn
it
like
a
star.
Did you know,
dear James,
that never is
longer than infinity
when never
is the next time
I'll see you?
For,
dear James,
298 days
is just the beginning.
It's a long time
even for the star
burning itself
to nothing,
or for a heart
divided
torn asunder,
or for a poem
to reach
an ashy state.
Did you know,
dear James?
I think you did.