The Scroll in the Mail

The realest things in life, the things that resonate, will be at some point, in one way or another
be lost forever. 
The realest thing in a day, could be the scent from a dryer vent that's been dragged across town against its will, by a small gust of wind;
it slaps you in the face and for a split second, it takes you home.
The weight of anyone's loss—whenever the time comes for Time to swallow—
depends on the gravity in which you savored the moments;
it's the selfish thought that drives the day. 

You're face is smaller than ever now, but your hair is still in my bed—
I have to throw them away because... it's the right thing to do,
but it's going to be cute while it lasts.
You're not just beautiful,
you're a sprite covered in chamomile and honey,
a shaft of light follows you as you float; you glow with effortless intention.
Your purpose is accidental,
yet mirrors look back at you with a dignified assurance.
You're not just a woman, you're a question mark and the realest thing to ever invest in me.

And For That I Thank You.