There were stories I would have told
of sand held in hands trembling cold
of two outlined, city fountain between,
exchanging rings in a church square.
These are stories I would have told,
of then, of now, castles I don’t remember, kings I do,
of the shadow, of the days where shadow only
scrapes beneath footprint waiting soil.
There were stories I would have told,
They rested on the tip,
Your hand touched them, pushed,
Your ears, did not.