Saturday, October 5, 2013

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 

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