There was a rippling of poetry

that echoed our every action in those days,

like each something, like all of our nothings

were pebbles tossed into the depths of our internal oceans

and our pens raced to trace the patterns before they stilled,

lest we should forget one sacred moment.

So many poetic snapshots

of our personal immortalities...

-----

I always used to wonder what happened

when the things the artists immortalized

died

before them.

looking back at those snapshots,

i wish like hell i never knew.