The
curtain draws in fast,
I
had only reached out to the
shadows
as it melted in your hands.
As
I saw you receding past my dream,
my
hands, nimble yet weak, could only
fathom
words; beyond which I was
fragile
as the wind sweeping my hair.
The
threads of the body had been long
laid
bare, desires swallow the last
vigour;
sapping the marrow under the
crumbling
skin, the dust opening crevices
under ruffled feathers where the last
streaks
of sunshine refuse to settle.
I know you will come. The shadows
remember
you, the opaque painting,
the books, still keep searching for words;
they know your date with time, when silence
will
descend with your steps.
I don’t know finality-
a
man of numerous beginnings-
I have stretched this time from
its
origins, for the beginning to be
caught
in the moment you come,
and
finality to dissolve in your
very
being.
