Making You a God in Word Only

Wax crayons, scattered on a desktop. The moment will have vanished entirely and unrecorded by these callow fingers. You will only be words in my mouth, and simple ones, not on my tongue but lodged in my esophagus, choking the life-breath. In ribbons of this color, tarnished light, you will only be echoed in immortality. How could I see, how could I ever? Could you have hoped to live in fame through the light that dreams lend our fancies? For words existed to connect those crucial ends, to make summaries of souls. They are not fit as passage vessels, but only as the loading docks. Without you, the journey is lost; there is only the beginning and the end; time is linear again. Now that you’ll be gone, the words have lost their meaning. They are mythic fossils, buried in my hippocampus, as useless as analog pocket watches, as useless as the envelopes stuffed with yellowing paper in my brother’s old blue trunk. Someone else must build a bridge to breach these waypoints. But it will be a different one than that for which its destinations were founded. It will not be the same.