So then I let go and I fell far and fast,
Into overcast dreams of a shade from the past.
Each thought seemed to settle on visions of him,
The way bees pinpoint traces of sage on a wind.
Sad weather may drift o’re my transposing mind.
Yet I have the desire; moreover, design.
Preserving his breath in the heart of my chest,
Where he’s never forgotten, withal, laid to rest.
Now somewhere within this affection starved soul,
Stirs a hunger to make the unreal tangible.
And he can’t be revived, so I’ll travel to him.
From the outermost world, to the timeless within.
And I’ll gladly embrace the sting of my demise,
If it means being able to live in his eyes.
- Amy Strom, (2012).