There are so many such artists. They publish work for a period.
Because you never truly knew them--since you only saw them in representations, in your mind they exist twinklingly. One day it's become two, five, ten years since last light, understanding that it must've been some time ago
they released the reins. There's a selfish part of part of you that doesn't want to let go. To that selfish part of me, I remind myself it was never about us. What does it mean to be shown, to see the light. Garner likes? Yet, it remains. "Oh, I'm here," it remains maybe like a shadow o'er fields unpainted --majesty. Flowing from cavities in karst mountains, reflecting pools, silent, framing constellations, echoing lights, each like a wand'ring spirit, "would you speak it to me," what is your legacy the cratering our hearts.