Our Wondrous, Dying Years

I lay claim. To the spaces between your breaths that hang suspended like dust in summer glare. I lay claim. To the corners ignored, in which your shadow glides beyond my feeble reach. I lay claim. To the fading spike of your laugh that leads me through our closed, unbuilt days. I lay claim. To the scraps of us that now stick and flutter on winter roads that once stretched for miles. I lay claim. To our solid silences that welded blood to shape, and sewed adoration to final, absolute pledge. I lay claim. To the story written, the history lived and the dreams that will all be swallowed whole. I lay claim. To these characters, these pages, these canyons between our lines that carry our wonderous, dying years.