sometimes
they (we) them
ache.

for nameless stencils of the collapsed
and
a deliberate wandering from the cold eyes.
Here you are, and
I recognize what this could (should) be.
But somehow the alternate world and series of choices (lack of choosing)
has steered you towards tape and chalk and
a different way.
Sometimes, usually Wednesdays around four, when you are tired and your mind is not as guarded as it should (could) be,
You think of bones and muscle and tissue and spirit.
And the tracings ache over what they can’t offer.

I feel the way your mind wonders
what if and maybe, and should I let one love go for another?