Sometimes it feels like everything I do is for an audience of ghosts. I am confounded by the weight of this time I have been given that you were not, and the notion that I cannot, CAN NOT, misuse it. But it's hard to wake thanking every day, especially knowing it was a similar day that took you in the first place. I want to carry you into the future, tucked safe in the folds of my mind and upper chambers of my heart. How is it that life can be more, but still so importantly, elegy after elegy after elegy?

"Your absence has gone through me   

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color." -W.S. Merwin