I walked pavement to open doors as the dust fell softly across all of your floors. we’d remembered that much, felt the kindness of its touch as we stepped through these old empty rooms.
watched the cracks cut by time, held hope in our eyes not yet in ruins while the sun bleached the paint, where our memories would hang, then followed us like our ghosts always seem to do.
so, yesterday we ran out into the rains. pressed to the ground we lay. you are the only thing that remains.
pack the bags and board the train. a new direction but to the same place. only one now in this field. a heart sought and regained. the path forward left these ghosts back with your name.
that delicate step out. enough cuts for one life. don’t call me with anything but truth. these holes just mean I’ve been moving through. this quiet street on a sunday afternoon. smiles in simple pursuits. that I’ll look back and be thankful to have moved on through.
of life and history there is such a thing as being too late. procrastination is still the thief of time. life often leaves us standing there naked and dejected with a lost opportunity. the tide in the affairs of men does not remain at the flood; it ebbs. we may cry out desperately for time to pause in her passage. but time is adamant to every plea and rushes on. that is an invisible book of life that faithfully records our vigilance or our neglect. we still have a choice today. the choice is ours. therefore the first hope in our inventory must be the hope that love is going to have the last word.