Meditations on Sugar, Spice, and Expiry Dates

You’re maybe not everything
nice, but that’s fine. You’re not ideal
nor are you ideal—not a great start,
but let me finish. There’s a start
of something not new, but familiar
like home where I can lay. You’re
what I’d keep if I had to leave all else—
warming me against
the cold and dark
I made up.

    In clouded negativity
    where I occasionally
    wallow, I am saved
    by every memory of you.

Light is the dull and obvious analogy.

You’re more an epiphany reminding me

why I choose to be here. A kick in the gut

telling me I should be here, otherwise,

assuming faith, the afterlife

would be pain and regret.

Though Eden is a scam, entropy,
unfortunately isn’t.
    Hourglasses
        run out of sand.
    Neither of us
        around for Christmas parties.
    Unalive you,
        unable to ask me for little favors.
    I, now gone,
        crushed that I can’t do anything for you.
    Our ashes,
        inevitable.

Luckily—knocking on that door a hundred times—
    we’re not crossing yet.

You still smile. Though I don’t say
    you always should. Your laughter follows:
    permeates like blood in water.
    I, not a hunter, follow the trail
    known by heart. You never ask me
    for whatever you want
    but know
    that I
    still give anyway

Despite chance, time, and ends,
    the choice remains. So here
    I remember you.