On Losing

In from some deep recess, tiding through cobbled streets, echoing, cavernous alleys, the blue moon silhouettes her. But from my soul ebbs strands of memories. Romantic notions.  Wanting.  Then Losing.  And so I do not welcome her.

A Year

I have wished it, at the sight of the trees – bleached white and stacked in unkempt piles and fit for a drowning. I have dreamt of a year of magical living, maybe in  some slow, abandoned seaside town, thus to the whims from the sea… lend myself to every fleeting, wondrous sensation.