A Tangle
You point at two
shadows, long in the evening decline and meshed like clouds, crossing
out where we end and begin in an awkward and incomplete scene.
Written over and
over by Shakespeare or Balzac, through centuries we've remained a
tangle darkened by an ego, and when you turn your head to whisper
about the past, you disappear, eclipsed by my lumbering frame with no
definition but the absence of light.
Afraid to let
yourself resurface, we slide deeper underneath the two shadows, under
tar and gravel and clay – here in the heart's darkness, where no
hand can reach out and squeeze another or press itself warmly into
well-earned flesh and feel pulse.
But as the sunset
quickens, our figures thin back to their solitary states, where each
hand idly extends to hold its match in shadow, singing, our
love was once an awkward and incomplete scene.
No comments:
Post a Comment