White blossoms cover the path, fallen promises giving way to green

The moon is my grief and I its point of orbit. Someone once suggested that I might be the moon and not the hungry Earth holding on.

I went searching for a journey, some trip I might have taken or was about to. All I could think of was our childhood. The impermanence of it, the incessant moving.  It seemed to never end and then it was over in a flash.