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