erased portrait of me

There’s nothing to decipher— only ashes to throw out into the gloomy sea we once called our dreamcatcher, guarding a piece of us There’s nothing to add. The constellations have aligned, and Orion, happily, aims his finished club at me The eraser is hard at work. Pencil marks remain where a portrait of me once stood in your heart— as Machu Picchu before its inhabitants flocked to the next fashionable promenade A summation of offside swings did not only ground us— it distorted our crystal orb— the halcyon days we mistook for routine A crack then crept in, and shattered There’s nothing left to idealize No meeting ground for our rockets of expectation Even birds tire of the blue and settle for the queue, folding themselves back to earth The Red Sea never met its Mediterranean counterpart for the same reason— it was never designed to.