perusing, I found that last piece:
dusty charcoal circles, slightly smudged
by your fingers, your artwork
forgotten on a shelf. I lifted it,
my wrists shivering, the pale white
lines and seven simple shapes.
I could hear the squeak of the charcoal sticks
on paper, the squeak of your voice in it. That
memory, dead in my head, has grown silent.
It will not speak, so I will
set your art aflame
on the cold asphalt and dry leaves
where it curls up and dies glowing.
– not alone, someone else
stomps out the flames. And then we roll away into the night.