i imagine you asking:
can pain subside?
is night the only answer?
i ask, in what makes, perhaps, the faintest echo of a leaf:
can our bodies still bear the fallout of grace?
before, i would have moved towards you, from within that unspoken, unfinished gesture which so oft has been the only way of revealing myself to you.
it is only time which moves in their throats, like a snake, splitting and trying in vain to shed its hours. in what should have been the raw skin of beauty, they turn from each other. when they have drunk all the red from the tulips and all the gold from the air and all the black from the poppies, in that stillness. they turn to each other, cold to the bones, ready to tear up their paleness as well.