Spaces we never see

I sit without a pen, 

drifting words like sand 

sit like granules in the 

hollows of my hand. Beyond

my window a memory has 

breathed its last echo. It 
must be morning somewhere.

I see the curves of your smile 
entering in the spaces between 
the nose and the lips, spreading 
on the chin, entering into the 
creases in your forehead;
teasing the melancholy of 
pain, the habit of its repetition, the 

hands of its memory, life 

of its drift.

The smile asks for lightness
from the drifting blue smoke 
and the wetness from the rain. It 

peeps from the crevices 

in the dangling plaster on 

the balcony across my 

view, speaks a reluctant 

word to the woman on the 

street and gathers a silence 

from her breath and rests like

droplets on rain on the 

window in a cold day.   

There are spaces we 

never see when we are 

looking.