This time around I have a little golden book
of poems and dreams for Spring's latest show.
It puts the Japanese garden one from last year
to shame, though it's pages have been less loved
before I got my hands on it. (I still miss the way
you'd paint my back covers and leave notes
across the margins of spaces I hadn't even
imagined crafting with yet). To be honest,
I still miss you in ways my poetry hasn't
even begun to explain in her aching songs.
Little Golden books might be things of
the future though, especially without you.
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