Sakura Festivals

I've been reading the words you left behind

again.

- - -

Cherry blossoms fall into my coffee
ironic, I know (it's okay if you don't see that),
while the pages of this journal weep
already faded ink upon ripped jeans and palms.

Sticky notes left on library tables
and kitchen counters, unattended,
haunt me the way orange juice once did.

Your ghost lingers here in community gardens
you've never trapesed (and likely never will) -
constellations have taken on your shape
and the universe whispers your name

(her breath is stained like bluebells,

just in case you were wondering).

- - -

I've been reading the words you left behind

again.