Being ancient but
perky I am not here
for you to bond my

strength, to lock me like
a djinn into a bottle
for making a wish

as and when you wish
but to guide your sailboat through
wild, choppy waters,

just to play with your
hair, to cool the fever and
kiss the tearful face of yours.

Yesterday an old,
dusty notebook appeared on
my desk which I have

never thought to read
or even open again.
It was the book of

days filled with your words;
heart shards of mine which I kept
for another life;

for another me.
But now on I cannot tear
apart my gaze from

its pages for I yearn
to morph into one with your
own vowels and consonants.

A rumor has it
there is an open season
for breaking hearts, but
I have never thought that you
are going to shatter mine.

Last night when the first
snow fell I was hovering
on the doorstep of

yours anxiously and
wringing my hands without a
dare to knock, even

my voice was laced by
unspoken poetry and
only stuttering

came out of my mouth.
I wanted to act; to love
out loud and fill the

space in between, but
under the shadow of a
doubt this void was made to grow.

The chimera of
yours, the only unextinct
creature in your bleak

bestiary; that's
what I really am:
formed from one-half love

and one-half throe by
you. But I recognized my
borders by learning

your limits for I
wish to forge my own path out
from your false mythology.

Trying to find my
solace in the moon of the
Fall for I lack the

lunar halo and
the velveteen, onyx shade
of yours. I wish to

be the one who at
once will make you whole, but you
are still concealing;

still hiding thyself
away behind a moonbeam
smile like a helpless

umbra does in the
sheltering embrace of the
dazzling paraselene.

I want to exile
from this still-life (though it is
still life), but I found

so hard even my
own motion within those stiff,
immobile patterns

of living... How knows?
Maybe there is no rise and
fall, but the gaudy

illusion; the cold,
inevitable stasis
of dried paint spots on a wall.