It wasn’t hard

It’s the same old same old every time:

when the first summer nights sweep across these fields

or this song gets played

it sinks in that nothing new can grow and

grow as old with me, because the countdown

has been on ever since.  And even though some

entered way back when, they couldn’t stay.

As true as this is for sure, it leaves such pangs. 

[This, by the way, used to be your word, how you captured

the effect the world and its pains have on you.

This index entry will stay yours, just as a few others I sometimes frequent.]

It wasn’t hard to forget that during

wintertime when forgetting falls from

the skies with these softest flakes.

But this isn’t it. This isn’t soft, isn’t still as winter’s cold.

This remembering is a heat, sweeping, stomping, slurring.

It leaves droplets on these skins

I’ve tried to shed.

 

What stays is the salt.

And there’s no living without that so –

they may stay, too,

even if they tug and tear and wear

me out at times.