it was beautiful—
that thing we had—
wasn’t it?

your thighs, summer-slick,
the laughter through car-windows,
then autumn so soft,
it spoke like a secret shared in bed.

all those whispers of forever,
pumping through our bloodstream—
they’re gone now.

and lonely octobers,
and bare holy nights,
will bare only reminder
of one absolute:

the millennia
won’t carry
any trace of us.

-

and the children
of children
will never know
we stood beneath
these same stars,
hoping
someone might remember
our tiny warmth
before the dark.