It was a gravity crashing,
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,
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.