A voice coloured distantly
through the water of memory;
Fingers through shadows like the mist
meandering breaths along a black creek,
Until in me comes the subtle tongued sliver
of your voice…
In Dark alleyways under the mirror lit moon-
I Saunter rugged corners, kicking stones-
That slate the chalk in the back of my mind.
Where there lies the musk of a worn notebook,
Within the promised warmth of your overhang-
pressed clean like the veins of a leaf,
Stowed away among pages unwritten.
But like the charm of an old shell
that breathes in itself if you hold it close,
I often hide in that silence.
The silence of the known.
And all these stones that I have kicked,
quietly echo the Morse of blind chests
to sweat words unsaid, wolfing down my spine.
And all these stones that I have kicked,
quietly fall to place like the Braille of night
that danced in our faint lipped eclipse
To show the moon not only as a reflection
But our gift.
…when you hear a voice
amid the tangle of knitted walls,
Swim back through the shadow
within a shadow on black waters past.
Open that notebook.
You will find me.
