magoski
Static like surf,
waves like wires,
time churns memory into
cream
that speaks of faces, names,
a scent of apple buns cooling
in a window no one will pass.
Goodbye becomes bread.
Death is gluten free
and if it keeps our hands together.
then We are here.
We were.
We will be—
melancholy, joy, acceptance—
what is,
is.