by August 31, 2011 0 comments

Breaks a year
Of delicate mornings. Untouched,
You remain a statuette. You turn
Pages, fragments of a magazine;
Your eyes, reflecting cosmetic ads,
Deceptively wear me out;
Turn me down to a fading star.
You shrug; indifferent gestures, becoming
A different person: a chrysalis
Sealed from within. Surrounding you
Earthly words are frozen, holding
No surprise.

In rarefied air, I become
Unattached from your being.
Even passing you chair:
An acquired skill,
An estrangement of hands
Devoid of feeling.

Already having
Thrown clothes in a bag,
There remains
The simple act of opening a door;
Hoping my exit
Is without your thunderous applause.

I would prefer your tears
Or some of your old magic.
Those ancient ways you had,
Of arranging
A mid-morning falling of stars
For special celebrations.

Perhaps our precious days
Could be words in a magazine,
The legend would tell
Of ecstasy and the moon,
In the night your white throat
Arching, yearning for that sigh –
The sign of perfection.
Hung like a star.

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