Reading · Mark Crutchfield

maybe this is the first one you have found - if so, you may want to begin with letter one

if loving you has taught me anything
it is how little eternity knows about staying

i have watched statues crumble slowly into dust
and cities forget the names they once carved into stone

i’ve watched lovers promise forever
with no idea how mercifully short forever can be

and still your smile
sends ripples through my veins
all the way to my fingertips

perhaps that is why the moon has spent centuries
trying to borrow the light from your face

she has watched enough endings too
to recognise something worth returning for

i remember the horses growing restless
before anyone had spoken your name

somehow they always knew you were coming
before i saw you approaching

i remember hearing your laughter
from somewhere across a crowded ballroom

and turning before i knew
whose voice i was searching

i can still see that last glimpse of you
as you disappeared through a doorway

though after all these years
i can no longer remember which one of us was leaving

and tonight
when your fingers found mine
you hesitated for the smallest moment
exactly where i remembered you would

and for just a moment
i blamed my memory

centuries have a way of making strangers
feel remembered

it wasn’t the weight of carrying thousands of voices
nor countless faces still smooth and fair

the names wouldn’t leave
i knew them all
but could speak only yours

perhaps that is why
i have never learned to fear another century

somewhere ahead
you may already be finding your way back

and perhaps next time
when i turn

your eyes
will have been waiting for mine

August always feels a little different.

If you’ve been thinking about joining the paid community, this feels like a lovely month to do it and support the writing.

For a limited time, paid subscriptions are 50% off.

Or, if you’d simply like to support the work without subscribing:

☕ Coffee, cake, or a book and help keep the poems flowing.

letter one,

letter two,

Something more poetry from me?

or maybe an essay on what happens before any words are written

Nothing truly leaves — it only changes how it stays.

the sweetness of almost - when i turn