The room’s walls, withered birch tree, crawled with filigree
shadows bred by neon glow of dimming lights and moon-
shine dissolving night and stars into the phantom embrace of
gossamer curtains, revived by wind’s breath which carry with it
lunar incantations, balk at our silence.
Violet chrysanthemum bouquet shriveled by time’s temperate
blessing throws memory of sun-kissed afternoons by the sea,
salt-caked toes wading deep and cold, seafoam periods, when,
sun collides with the earth and twilight melts the divisions
of life and death into amber sand slipping through our fingers.
Silk cocoons woven around her body which sinks deeper and
deeper into the transverse-land, Dream’s Kingdom, shakes
fragments of still mornings where pearls clung to lotus
leaves and I to her breast, grasping at the bloodred threads
binding me to her womb.
She is still magic. checkerboard hair with washed-out dye and
crow’s feet, canvas-stretched skin with pencil lines, yet warmth
in her palms and unsaid promises in her eyes. I am still here.
and an infinite other thank-yous at four o-clock for you who
breathed life into my veins and
Although Death is a patient man, the candle burns too quickly
I do nothing as she joins the lunar incantations: a lunar synthesis,
diffuses her soul into the star-torn universe, unravels the fibers but
I know she will wait beyond the boundaries, wait for me till we drown,
and human voices wake us.
