Impermanence

This is the worry, you see,
that in the end
the air will disappear;
there will be nothing
and nothing will not sing any song.
Butterflies will tremble
in some new air
somewhere
wings healing from
smallness will never
swim through the passion
that our lungs felt
(with that air
knocked rock hard
and hammered into
wordless headstones).

Do say I loved you –
that we knew eternity
before we wore out
and sank into
that rugged, wooden night.

Tell someone we
were a something
that mattered.