Why do I cry like the trees
and scream into the winter wind?
Why do my silver leaves drip so easily,
with only a simple kiss of moonlight
or the laughter of the lucky bluebird?
Why do I still wonder
how I can embrace the lost,
and warm the cold with my
own frigid hands.
How do I cease to forget,
the feel of a sweet voice
and lazy rays of sun making the dust glow
like my own little constellation of tiny stars.
Why must I adore a ghost
and not a person?
How do I intertwine fingers,
with a shadow?
How can I say ‘thank you’
when I’ve already said ‘goodbye’?