e Who’s Already
understand at the top of my lungs and have faith
you’ll hear, but I can’t because I’m much too naïve
and much too weathered. I have no home now, only
the chirping of birds grieving another night passed
to keep me company. You live in the stars now, in
the hum of your old photographs clicking into the
projector, in the soft and quiet moments I close my
eyes, in the dirt and soil of the places you called
home, in the woodgrain of the delicate objects you
crafted with your bare hands. I am not made of
memories or fire or woodgrain or hope, I am composed
of fragile bones and broken spirits. I can’t
follow you out into the night. So I will write to a man
who will never read my letters. I will write to the
memories he left behind.
Your dearest,
Someone Left Behind