It was a gravity crashing,

 star crushing,

 kind of morning

as a kaleidoscope of spinning planets

with unlimited, unanswered questions,

headed for catastrophe


for the prettiest snow flower of a day-dream.

He wanted to sit beside her

to carry her candle

shielded in a cracked glass

against the edge of the sun’s stolen storm of time.

Yet, silently he stood at the airport,

and stared

 at the prettiest hangman’s rope he ever saw

wishing he held a sign that read:

‘Pick me as your next life detour’.


A regret he never did forget.