I move away.
Every motion I make is
That of someone leaving.

I move away,
Like finished dancers; ploughs
Of birds heading to or from

Some paradise or not. I
Move away from excessive
Touching; such caresses turn

Desperate and demanding to
A man whose lovers are gentle
Mountain breezes and whispered

Songs of dry leaves hissing
Like the last breath of
A ancient artist seeing her

Masterpiece through closing  
Eyes; content and, like all things
Living should,

Embracing the dying a slow
Death that Life truly is, and
Knowing it's no place to stay.
Not staying.
Moving
Away.