It's June–the first day of Summer, You have never come home empty-handed, And I stand by our apartment door, Eye the lift as it totes between floors.

Daffodils and forget-me-nots smile under the Autumn Sun.

Oh, I’m waltzing down.

But like him they will remember her complexion and her curls and the countless pieces that she graced.

Noun. Abstract. That which cannot be touched.

i exist in the smallest of spaces in the underside of a bed a corner of a balcony

I see it in the words, Where your hand dragged over the wet ink.

For wounded soldiers rarely feel, Of throbbing hearts and broken skin.