You can tell his hands have worked to the bone,
dirty fingernails tracing art in the dark of the room.
Dust scattered on the floor, the desk, the lamps.
He hasn't been here in a long time: seven years
to be exact. What he left behind was a book
filled with love and somewhere two weeks after
he dies, a twelve year old girl will find it.
And read it cover to cover until she became
a love story in herself.
You can ask the sky
how many times she's sighed at the passing
of someone she's never met, and feels she knows
Love means never being forgotten
You can't hold the short arm of the clock
and call it yesterday.
The night unravelling,
caught in the moment of the earth's
dance on its tilt
when it's just as day
as it is the night; like light
appearing behind shut eyelids
who am I to trust
when the earth turns and dreams
turn into daytime reveries
will I wake up and forget
or will your elbow slide off the table
and break the spell?
This time is a perfidious lover,
so tell me,
whose side is it on
Why do you take beautiful things
and turn them into instruments
Underneath these artless skies
I marry the ghost within you
because the stories are now
screaming mad, and dark,
and every time your name
rolls unto my tongue, it thunders,
and I tremble, and tremble,
and like a thousand ships set against
the tide, I will my eyes to sleep;
cold as ice, mother, pray tell
how does one go to sleep when
Thanatos is the one weaving the
blanket; rather awake than dead;
half a heart than half a soul;
tell me if I open you up I'll find anything
other than flesh, other than nothingness;
you're so vacant and uninhabited, I forget
you're not an abandoned building;
tell me how I can go to sleep
without being woken up by the ghost
of you in my head, dancing to music
we once made when we touched; I'll
revisit those little joys, and maybe I'll
understand why empty vessels make
the loudest noise.