pockets lined with the stuff absence is made of

You are the words in my pocket.

Sometimes I trace the black

cursive lines

of wind on the sea,

or campfire under falling yellow

leaves.

Capture the still frame moment.

But always,

those moments are forgotten,

or misplaced, misused.

But you are always writing away

on the tiny pieces of paper

wadded tightly in my pocket,

opening them up to light,

replacing the empty with more

full.

My greedy hands are always

searching my pockets hoping

you will grab me.