Our Wondrous, Dying Years
I lay claim.
To the spaces between your
breaths that hang suspended like
dust in summer glare.
I lay claim.
To the corners ignored, in which
your shadow glides beyond my
feeble reach.
I lay claim.
To the fading spike of your laugh
that leads me through our closed,
unbuilt days.
I lay claim.
To the scraps of us that now stick
and flutter on winter roads that once
stretched for miles.
I lay claim.
To our solid silences that welded blood
to shape, and sewed adoration to final,
absolute pledge.
I lay claim.
To the story written, the history lived and
the dreams that will all be swallowed
whole.
I lay claim.
To these characters, these pages, these
canyons between our lines that carry our
wonderous, dying years.
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