She turned her back on the window in her room
And reimagined every single impossibility, the
Terrors within her mind, the skin with his scent on it,
The reminiscence of mouths and words across her throat,
An ever-moving sash, the air old, the lights accessorising
Her daydreams. She stared at her fingernails and wondered
What an abandoned instrument would sound like after years.
What stories would it tell? Would its melody be forever changed?
Or stick to well-known, ever-present notes? She projected
Life onto objects, onto him, and maybe he got lost in the process,
His genuine identity, daily habits, tastes and desires. Maybe they had
No idea who they really were. She fuelled her imagination in a land
Of ever-increasing fog and waves of sands, glistening, feeling what
And he follows her, the traces he left in her hair, the eyelids,
The skin poeticised by stories and the language they created,
The effervescence of intimacy, bursting, curtains, blankets,
Her body and his. He reaches out his hands, the memory
Rustling down his throat, her absent back against his chest,
He won’t hold her no more, his face caressing copper, an image,
His nose within the forlorn atoms of her, the voice ebbing away.