We bloom,
badly sometimes,
in places never meant for gardens.
And so it goes.
A boy outgrows his favorite lie.
A girl paints a sun where the sky won’t stay.
And so it goes.
Somewhere, a mother packs away a crib.
A father turns down the hall light—
out of memory, not anger.
And so it goes.
We touch each other
like pages we’ve dog-eared—
to remember,
because we once did.
The coffee cools.
The dog sighs.
The dead leave fingerprints
on poems we try to finish.
And so it goes.
Still, the moon insists,
rising like it doesn’t care who left.
Or maybe because it does.
We keep dancing
on unsteady knees,
offbeat and too late,
but together.
And so it goes.
Joy slips in through grief’s back door.
A song plays
and we sing along,
knowing the lyrics will end.
And so it goes.
And still—
we go.
