Your Stars Burn Bright
When you burned your stars into ashes,
brilliant basalt dust,
I dutifully scattered the fine powder in memory of you.
And they refused to blow off neatly into the wind.
Instead, I squinted and sneezed as they floated
everywhere, coating my clothing, hair, skin, and lashes.
Dinner that night I could taste you faintly
as I licked the sauce off my fingers
and secretly wiped my hands on the tablecloth.
Life and routine so simple,
mourning only a duty,
and the road keeps moving on.
But sleepy mornings come and silence
with too much time to think.
Loving memories become pots of tea
steeped too long.
I drink deeply,
and this heart is my own bitter cup.
Grace grants me forgiveness;
forgiveness grants me peace,
and quiet midnights I pray for you when
the cool navy sky brings me to life.
Senses grow tolerant,
and my eyes cease to sting.
Your scent has almost gone, and
this comforting pot is empty.
By the bedside the light flicks off.
Hanging high in the deep, dark, cavernous redness,
your stars burn bright.