Even the brightest blazes end as smoke.

The small of your back was a candle flame

the place where my eyes went in the darkness and I

can't remember the color of your eyes but

I can remember the sound of your voice

when I drove you home,

talking about cartoon cities and sea monsters. I

wonder if your Irish girl holds onto you

the same way I used to.

You talked about shaving your beard again, said

it made you look too old,

said the only pro was that it kept you warm.

I started knitting you a scarf for Christmas, realized

I'd never have the balls to send it.

It's hidden under my bed with all the letters I never finished.

I wonder if you still have that dreamcatcher,

the one I made for you when a part of you

was leaving me like the tide

I never got to watch with you.

I wonder

if I will ever kiss you again. I wonder

if it matters.