I recall fragments When I allow them to cut Into my meaty consciousness: Naivety and self-obsession. Waking dreams Of hands held and Sticky sweets sucked; Why then does this not hurt more? Joyful, unabashed, Stoic we swam and Laughed. The thread That links us is wrapped to a Winch that one day I might turn. Cross words, fluid Stanzas and art in scope, Litter my walls and Desks which rumble As I quake, alone. One day this will Hurt more. One day when the Silence of a spring garden Makes my ears ring, Eyes sting: untethered.