My breath still catches when I think of you;

my chest tightens

imposing and unchecked

because I am sprinting towards you but standing still

always always when you come to mind.

 

I am hoping soon and hoping never

that I will forget the smell of sagebrush hills and washboard roads

and bugling elk and turning leaves;

of snow falling over your leaden cliffs.

 

I am on my knees again.

I am doubled over at the kitchen counter for you

feeling those things I can’t explain;

those things that collapse anew when you come to mind.

You are the death of someone close

but far from dead.

 

They went through with it

and left you perched with unmoved wings

so they could fly south instead,

and you could soar without flying

as you always have,

but with no one there to see.

 

This is what it’s like

sending off and putting a price tag on,

the heaven that first carried you

high.