Maybe the wolf is in love with the moon, and each month it cries
for a love it will never reach.




We shall meet when the setting sun
and rising moon appear together in the sky.
The sky will change colour,
and all will be bathed in an orange glow.
Winds of desire will blow
And thundering clouds will fill the skies.
Dry leaves will murmur
and untimely rains will wash the earth.
All that will remain will be
the fire of love in our hearts.
On that day
we will become one
for eternity.

– Erin Hanson


Perhaps we’re not afraid of death

But of our own name plucked from the air

Of the silence that surrounds a thing

That’s just no longer there. 

For we never really know

The lifespan of a single sound, 

How many years after a body stops 

A name will stick around.

Perhaps it stretches generations

Echoes one last time, then never,

Until the space it filled’s replaced

By its unknown loss forever.

Or maybe there’s another way

It lives after we fade,

It’s why we write our names’ on books we own

And all we’ve ever made.

It’s a sliver of remembrance

In a world prone to forget,

The taste of who we were

On lips of one we’ve never met. 

The hope they’ll stumble on the stories

We have loved, worn down with age,

That there they’ll find what we had left:

Our name upon the cover page.

And for just that fleeting moment

It’s as though we’ve beaten death,

That in the whisper of those words

We have taken one more breath.