I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole, you held a warm stone out; new flowing blood to hold. Oh, what a contrast you were to the brutes in the halls!  Over the ramparts you tossed the scent of your skin and some foreign flowers, tied to a brick.  Sweet as a song.

 The years have been short but the days were long…cool of a temperate breeze, from dark skies to wet grass. We fell in a field, it seems, now a thousand summers passed. When our kite lines first crossed we tied them into knots.

 And finally… fly apart. We had to cut them off.

Since then it’s been a book you read in reverse so you understand less as the pages turn. Or a movie so crass and awkwardly cast even I could be the star. I don’t look back much as a rule…but your memory is here and I’d like it to stay. Warm light on a winter day. Over the ramparts you tossed the scent of your skin and some foreign flowers tied to a brick sweet as a song. The years have been short but the days go slowly by…two loose kites falling from the sky, drawn to the ground and an end to flight.

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