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we pass over hearts
like magic wands,
like wayward darts.

there is ache when we fly
in search of nest
there is ache when we try
to bide in empty rest

we pass into depths
in, through the eye
out, by the breath

there is ache when we roam
free of destination
there is ache when confined
and held in consternation

we pass into days
forgetting years
hid in haze

there is a memory
pushed far back and down
of a love – – –

was it love?
is it still?

there is ache from what I can’t recall
and fear that i might lose it all

again

and

again

and

again.

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