I looked for him in the smallest of things.
In the dust in the corners of every room.
In the immoveable handle of my front door.
The overshadowing frames on white walls.
I don’t dare to put his clothes in my grasp.
I would never be capable of extracting my face
From the form memorial of his being, its transcendence.
I feel him walking within me.
This courage has never been mine.
He lost ownership and I stand tall.
I think of him and I stand tall.
I embrace me as he would have done it.
Would I ever be able to reach these heights without him
By my side? Where did he go with his presence so clear?
I can barely make it out of our hemisphere.
I revitalise his face with every step.
I’m coming closer, closer to you.
Otherwise I cannot move.
I will not. I need the sun to rise.
I’ll lie here and think of you in every form.
And I find myself in the dust in every corner of the room.
“Ophelia” by Konstantin Yegorovich Makovsky (1839-1915)
Croque-Melpomene 