counting down this particular slant of sky

..
i
hold my breath,
because i know she’s up
there somewhere, new
and waiting.

she’s
waned her own
melted wax, burned her
self out from both ends,
slid across

this
inky rink on
crescent skate. she’s
late to the party (mine)
but always

just
on time for
her own, sometimes even
pausing to kiss that pesky
sun good

……………….– bye.

.
prompted by poetic asides.