the last time

I'm sorry I wasn't there when

your wings

stopped working and if I was

I would have weaved the rusted

leaves of the pomegranate tree

that scattered your driveway

and doorways and laced them with

the rosemary you would dry and

bring to me.

I would've cried

with you in the moment

you couldn't hold on to anymore

and held your hand like

you held mine beneath the

clear, starred night

as you held me

while we swayed to a

song I no longer listen to.

I would've breathed in

your breathless sighs

as you left us that night,

and I would taste

the hurt

you held

in your tremoured heart

and nothing you've left behind would go

unknown.

I'm sorry I couldn't make it,

I'm still hoping you'll call.