Firewood

"The piano is not firewood yet" -Regina Spektor

I don't want to forget you,

I just want to forget the memory of you. 

But not the real memories, the could have beens,

Romantic figments that found their way into my mind.

They came as could have beens in our lives

could have beens we threw in a bucket 

Do we still carry that bucket? 

Can you recite its contents to me? 

Such an obsession isn't healthy. 

And we've gotten past the impasse

No longer do we play tug of war

instead we sit in exhaustion, our clothes grass stained

our lungs out of breathe, ironically in a rejuvenated synchronization.

Such irony isn't poisonous. We aren't fated, 

but that doesn't mean we aren't symbiotic.

Clinical assessment of where we stand is bleak. 

Even the language is short of enthusiasm.

But time is still running. And summer is still coming.

So I propose we stop carrying this bucket around.

Instead let's fly kites on a still day. 

Run in futility for hours, laughing at the inevitability

of gravity, aero dynamics, and our own stamina.

Then we can fall in the grass. Our hair grass stained.

And then we'll make a bonfire out of the sky. 

Connecting the stars until finally summer comes.

And I will leave. And you will leave. 

Fall will come. And our bucket will remain untouched.