[it may be raining]

When, in the story of our lives,
do we stop and remember those that we loved,
that we left behind?

Where, in the hallways of our minds,
do we stop and look over our shoulders,
and remember?

I have it written on my arm,
bigger and blacker and bolder than anything
on my dirty, pale, weathered skin,

where I read it
over and over
every day.

I needed her to know it so badly,
that it was hers,
my arm is hers,
(this arm is yours, Princess).

But all I can do
is write it down
in words that she can read,
over and over,

press the paper into her palm,
and say goodbye.