this breeze that speaks such lies,
wet with your fingerprints,
the taste of your lips on its breast,
here, then gone, past the riven mountains,
following the hollows of your feet.
everything is silent except the evergreens,
now bent into questions, refusing to rise.
but then, the past
is just curated images,
stuck on the evening breeze,
a little blurry,
a little out of reach.
I grabbed a fistful this evening,
it had the sound of your laughter
and those long dried tears
in my eyes.