They always come to me a little hollow-eyed,

thin-skinned like parchment, breath stirring dust.

Never wanting to ask what carved them into pieces,

knowing only that something did, leaving them broken.

I become the quiet match struck in a dark cave,

breath beneath their ribs, hearts remember rhythm.

My hands explore the intricacies of their old grief,

pulling on threads of despair, finally settling down.

Disjointed half-sentences and long awkward silences,

re-writing old stories, bringing color to their cheeks.

Old birds that somehow forgot they still have wings,

Manic laughter startles in their throats, Vishuddha.

Their dead flowers bloom against my mouth by morning,

once swearing to not see, now a temporary resurrection.

A safe place for miracles to happen when the pulse steadies,

hips firmly clenched, they stand taller than their ghosts.

Of course the only honest ending is for them to leave,

it must be this way, left behind with echoes of their voices.

Faint perfume and memories fill my head with joy,

Never to keep, but to remind them that they were never-

really gone.