I’ve given my gone away.
Penetrating the inches that can’t seep through.
Making way for the empty.
You asked me to write you a song.
I’ve left you a note instead.
This tree has no roots.
Its flamboyant branches, crumbly.
My yoke, amusing in this wake.
Falling, I’ve imagined, must be grey.
Just as desolate is.
I’ve seen my blindness reach me.