let it be wild. let it be weeds.

I remember, my fingers did the talking
my mouth couldn’t,
clinging to the cotton of your shirt-
a pleading gesture
gone unanswered:

In this way, a last leaf falls in the lake below,
slow to follow as winter’s warnings passed unnoticed,
the leaf too distracted by the changing colors of its veins.
How could this be death? 

The ripples spread wide and multiply;
This is the water’s record,
but with no needle to touch the grooves,
the leaf lands unheard-
a quiet end.

-How Many Leaves Does It Take To Tell A Sad Story

“In French, you don’t really say ‘I miss you.’ You say ‘tu me manques’ which is closer to ‘you are missing from me.’ I love that. ‘You are missing from me.’ You are a part of me, you are essential to my being. You are like a limb, an organ, or blood. I cannot function without you.”

-Anonymous