With hidden hands,
the curtain clung to the wall
and cascaded like a waterfall
down to the floor.

Smothering the window
and draping an old side table,
rendering it derelict
- a lifeless silhouette.

Quarter way down from the ceiling,
the curtain parted just a sliver.
Allowing a lone ray to visit between
ambling clouds.

•••

One on the outside can’t fully see
the darkened workings
of a confined mind.

I, on the inside...
Can’t see past the cloth
fastened stubborn
over my weary eyes.

To write for you...

I’d have to dive into an emotional well
and drown only to be revived
by the subtle tendrils of the words
you once swore.

Nuances of the song we used to sing - caressing my limbs, cradling my neck
and whispering...
Retracing their mark.

Reigniting the flickerless...
Steadfast flame that burned ever before.

As if hoisted by ethereal wings,
I’d be reborn with the ink...
This ink - black and stark.

And therefore it lays
unforgiving and unslaked
like a thirst unquenched

There was no one...
So I spoke as if a secret
into the wind.

I told it,

“You may blow your skeptic tune.
Your quiet whistles of doubt.”

“Exhale if you must,
upon the countenance of her face.
Run your invisible fingers
through her hair...
Taste her lips like you would
the surface of the lake in the sun-shy morns.”

“Then you would dispel all disbelief.
You would take these words I say,
and know why confide in you.
You would know why I had fallen.
And you would know why
you would then be my messenger...”

“So that you could word the song
I could never sing.
You could caress her face
when my fingers could not.
You could kiss and fill her lungs
with all that she needs when I am gone.”

.