Dear You,

Sometimes, I place my hand on the wall, the cold assures; I'm still here I hold onto a nearby rail, to cling to rust, to something

more tangible than I The pebble I've once kicked, is now one with the path You tread, the leaves I've once plucked, food for the soil You breathe the coin I once wished upon and tossed, lies beneath the bridge You crossed

Etchings in the bristlecone pine,

will pass with the turn of the page

needles and cones and IV

become matters of age.

On this day, I write

as my attempt to stay

my wish? To say

I've left You with the present

from those who wandered first

I am not here to answer You,

I no longer exist

but you and I are one,

the same

bar born, another day.

thank you for reading