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

She thinks.

 

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.

photo of a woman sitting beside statue
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

 

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