Tuesday, January 26, 2010


I could almost smell
the vast, collective air
and the happy mood upon it.

I could almost taste
the subtle tang of sea
and olive grove wafting.

There, where you were.

How was I transported?
How shredded from my space
and latticed to your time?

This is not sanity.
This was not expected:
a sudden rush of tears,
a funereal silvering,
a hot mercurial mourning.

I adore the very ground
that holds the echo
of your footsteps.

I adore the very air,
quivering like harp strings
when you speak.

Before you were born,
I sought you in moonless nights.
I loved with patient passion,
sundered into dreams.

But now the days are drying
into dead sea fissures,
where hope and passion
leak into this evening.

This weeping is
a convulsion of years,
while these words are
a subtler catharsis.

And you will never know.
And you should never know.
And you will live your life.
And I have spilt my tears.

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