beyond the windowpane someone asks, "where has he gone?" and i remember you and how it used to be: sunlight congealing into pools like maple syrup dripped, from the edges of a silver spoon, on the knotted threads we shared of memories just outside the room reflecting light like glass and when we slept we hid our losses until morning steadied in the treetops i haven’t forgotten you and that white butterfly that wanders the edges of a green and misty sky where clouds slide together in the slanting light all our poems are intact there and the sky is as blue as that water you always used to write about I used to write. A lot. I wrote what I knew. I wrote clichés about touch, kisses, butterflies and of course, heartache and loss. I wrote because I felt these things so strongly and never felt more alive or open. I wrote because I wanted to remember the feeling of being able to grab someone’s hand and run through the field or l...