Our love is organic. 

It’s pointing out the shining clusters of constellations as we lie itching under the Georgia pines that we each nimbly climbed as children.  

It’s locking arms and zig-zag-walking at the farmer’s market, buying the most oddly shaped pumpkin we stumbled upon just because.  

It’s rescuing the oldest pup in the noisy, howl-filled pound, buying his soft-pillowed orthopedic bed, and absorbing his relief and gratitude until he passed.  

It’s losing each other in a thick pungent patch of Christmas trees like we did last winter, calling out marco and polo until I laughed so hard I wet myself.  

It’s as soft and quiet as slow-falling bird feathers, fragile snowflakes, and theater whispers.  

It’s as natural as winter to spring, summer to autumn.  

But I never knew. There were no signs. 

I open your urn now with six spins to the left and I see inside that your ashes are also contained in a clear bag, suffocating every little thing that was good about us. 

I like to think you’ve flown up, shooting through the stars to find your infinity, but the block of wood that envelopes you is as heavy as my regret. 

It’s as chestnut as the espresso I drink after sleepless nights.  

It’s as solid as the walnut floor that I pace. 

I will hold you with the pink of my flesh until I embrace you again. I never knew.