Letters to Ann Arbor

Is the ground still as cold and unforgiving
as it was the day they
laid you down?

Over here, the west coast rotates
in perpetual summer
and when it rains, we sizzle.

You learned that first hand
the day you tore into my life
and danced us both
into the arms of a sunburn.

I’d live it all again if I could manage the time skip.

-

I’m not sure if you remember
California sunshine,
but it remembers you.

The deep July heat calls your name.

Where'd you go?

-

The Monday before last
my fingers itched to paint beauty.

My palette was empty
so I walked to the store on Lighthouse Avenue,
spent hours contemplating shades
and still went home empty handed.

They don’t make colors like you anymore.

-

I dream of you and wonder.

Did your smile melt into mineral earth
or are you still a pretty face?
I look and find you only in ink and paper.
Are you gone from me forever?

When I die the world will silence my mouth with dirt
and my thoughts will retire
somewhere in between ash and stardust.

Maybe then I will find you.