I miss the wind chimes,
the way they'd tenderly collide like contrasting colors in a
watercolor, spreading music with each avid kiss of silver.
We used to sit and listen, for endless hours, in a silence
only wind chimes dared to crack.
Now it's just me,
no company of clinking chimes, sideways
glances, or upturned lips;
and I despise this nothing, this torture of my own thoughts,
left completely within the core.
Everything I hesitantly feel,
everything I reluctantly am,
has been rearrangedreassembled and shuffled,
like a puzzle left to a child; carelessly, senselessly.
The time spent on wood-floored porches far
outweighs time spent so perfectly
as I watch the movement of a hundred suns, while one
thousand moons lay seemingly still,
fixed within one point of sky; blue and unfailing.