Insignificant syllable
in a buried history,
lost note in a forgotten symphony,
hard tear shed by defeat
that goes unlamented,
I of lamp-lighting
and story telling,
endless walks that led to abrupt ending,
I of a street lamp and a firefly
nondescript and sterile,
blues and silvers that made up dreams
and a night filled encounter-certainty,
waiting
waiting
for a ghost ship and a swallow
that reads out the weather.
Will it rain tomorrow, tell me
will there be starlight and amber,
the settlement of dew?
And will there come in a vial or in an envelope
the dust that erased my footprint from her heart?
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