I know your voice by heart, I let it

Speak to me every day, the way it called

Me, but my arms could not reach out to you

To let you go, to inhale you, one more time,

Absorb your memory, and close my eyes

Not to see you go.

 

Every time I lie down, your face

Washes up on my shores and I

Send whispers outside of my room.

The echoes of our past whiplash my back.

I crawl back in my childlike body and beg

You to hold me once more.

 

My name on your dying lips,

The words that pronounced you dead

As I sunk down on my knees

To pick up the pieces of me, and us,

To never lose them, to let them keep their

Pulse, unlocked, turbulent, between us.

 

I remember your language.

The valleys and mountain tops of your

Vocality. How I strain my own voice

To resemble yours, to hold you there, feel

You there, with me. I sing your songs

And acknowledge your steps, I remember

That you hover now, instead of holding

My hand, flesh to flesh, my skin on yours,

Immortal love letters.

800px-Jean-Étienne_Liotard_-_Portret_van_Mme_Boère

“Portrait of Mme Boère” by Jean-Étienne Liotard (1702-1789)

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