Paper Headstones
Your names don’t get granite etchings,
not great ones no villains in time;
you merely float, on lips, in transit,
until the modest star burns,
until we stop holding you close,
rest some other portrait between
our front teeth and bite down,
lupine and ripping for it to be ours.
We never gave you a name to stop
the bleeding of possibility to ether,
the shock of creation to stand apart,
the training of hope from tired faces.
We wrote it on parchment; less than that,
captured the day in digital squiggles
so that we can tell ourselves,
anyone who passes:
You Were.
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