Seven times you brush your hair
Lying on your pillow
Your hands above your head, you hear
Of tides that wind the sea,
Of knowledge and delusion.
To say goodbye, seven times I lie
That truth keeps to its own time,
That loneliness is real.
I take you by the hand and tell
Of leaves already turning pale,
Tell you of the tears of men
And you say, show me. Or do not show me
And your poems are nothing.
You say you do not wish to live,
So I talk, and talk. The room absorbs me.
I encourage your beauty, compare you
To a slender tree… like yellow leaves
Above your head your hands cast shadows…
Three times I write the poem.
Your fingers scurry
Like children late for school.
Your eyes burn like empty stars.