Not just a year
Not just 365 sunrises
365 sunsets
Not just four seasons
Not just numerous fallen
leaves
But a distance
An in-between
As poignant as that between
a poet and her finished work
As sorrowful as the longing
birthed in between lovers’ quarrels
Something like a profound
trike of the chisel that’s shaping us
We like to believe
that we move on, with new faces, our hearts
sheathed in a thicker
crust of robust gleaming armor
And nearer to the next
finish line, at the first sign of a curled-up leaf
we falter.
We’ve been here
before,
we’ve been here before.
All we’ve done was survive
we never lived. 
