I read your poems yesterday. br and found flat between the pages br an unnamed flower someone gave you, br while you walked the streets in love. br br we were almost more than br I can imagine now. br br and I found severed worms, growing tails and heads, br and metaphors br and those singing moments; br all the fine art of living and remembering, pulsing br on a cool white pages as if blood flowed from your pen. br br If I gather you up, place you across paper, br arrange your limbs, smooth your brow and brush back the hair that hides your eyes... br I will still lose you to the turning of a page. br br life stops mid-sentence, br though we continue to walk among the choirs of leaves br and moments.