confluent with winter’s moon

my internal discourse

with you leaves me

a gibbering mess,

so very real

yet imagined

as I haven’t spoken

to you in years.

I still find I

pantomime the flower

of words you left,

unforgotten.

I’ve grown callous

to the groan

under the stairs

I left some things

down there,

unforgotten.

I’ve become accustomed

scent of Asian pear

jasmine in air,

unforgotten.

cups of tea

honey shared

in garden flames

spared, you rest

unforgotten.