There is a way to measure the distance, more acute than miles.
It is the number fluttering fingertips, iridescent and fine, must flicker through air
Until it reaches a shadow that has come to be dear to me.
It is how fast it takes to count,
Count the seconds before wingbeats whisper into a familiar ear; it is waiting
For it to return with a story I want to hold.
There is a way to measure this depth.
It is seeing the play of dragonflies across your cheek,
Brushing and tracing softly every hollow of skin over bone,
And to wish their blades were smiles stolen against your shoulders,
Or to want how they alight on your chest to be a small hand;
It is, until I realize that this does not need to be measured, that it
Does not matter.
If I could trap moments in jars, I would let glass overtake my bed, attic, and hearth,
Yet the most I can do is catch them between my palms before I must let them go,
But not before I admire the veins and clarity and edged poise that had the grace to sit, though not long, on my wrist,
To leave a sense of wonderment in me that tries so dearly to last, just as you have.
I wanted to leave upon you something more than the memory of a small life fleeting captured within fingers,
Something that could not even be tucked into some vessel to gather dust, be forgotten, and then be found again—
But all I could leave was this.