I collected all the fallen limbs and driftwood memories.

Looking into your eyes, examining your face
the details of every freckle on your arm, the shape of your ear
your smile and lips. 

To make driftwood art and admire it all day.

Some days, the hard ones
It feels like some unknown people piled all our memories up and set it alight. 

Warmed themselves by the fire of the passing night of memories that never happened. 

It fuels my sadness, a touch of resentment.
 
Who are these well meaning people, perhaps cold, they were, who had to warm themselves by the fire of us to feel alive. 

Who threw in a pinecone of ‘what if’, or ‘why would you’ that sputtered and sparked in the flame. 

I know all the things that they say.

I spend my days willing the life out of me, as alone as one can be.

So these humans, whom I do not envy, the ones who are alone like me, can know all the kindness that resides within. As one who knows what alone really means.