Vignette

There is a place 

somewhere along the hairlines of oblivion

Obscure yet with history. 

Where you are a tendril of a vision. 

Dim yet with commensurate charm. 

Somewhere between light and shade.

Like a photograph. 

Collated and kept in wooden boxes 

that only open to humidity. 

There is no speech, only the softness gradual fading.

Like an osmosis of heartaches from one to the other.

There is so much. So much of distance 

inhabiting me that I become displaced. 

A refuge in my skin. And yours too.

I wish I were built like things that endure beautifully. 

Like Qandahar.

So that even its ruins speak of poetry.

Speaking of which I am reminded of you. 

Your body of honey and molasses. 

Your body of secret places. 

Your body of oil and canvas

where I find myself migrating

like sea-breezes.

I am reminded with every pasture of sound, 

every window of language

through which slowly eases 

A thought.

That we give each other nothing.

No pebbles to carry 

so that we may never use them

to find our way home.

Reviews

[Jon Roggie]

I like this. I just can't decide if this is a view of the past, or memories of the future.

[Corset]

what an extraordinary write, every line resonates, it feels like an ending but not a goodbye, it feels like a changeling, no pebbles to return to what you knew before,
but a different breeze into something ancient like a city, but rock steady as of ruins
that stand against the weather of time and elements. There is just something so incredibly beautiful in this write. Excellent as always a cut beyond the average, cheers!