(To Roland)
The last time we stood together—
before it all broke,
before the silence was brand new again—
we were leaning over the railing,
an atrium of fresh empty floors cascading beneath us,
looking over the void in the same direction,
at the stage, pining for the same thing
that was singing over the music and underneath our reborn hunger.
The pauses that we cloaked with the strumming of our fingers
grew wider than we knew what to do with.
And every now and then the familiarity would drop
like a baby on its head—with a round thud
and the absence of a scream.
It was then that we first let our names
grow distant to our ears again
and the rest of the sentences to our selves.
It was there that I noticed the hair sprouting between your knuckles
and tried to imagine the taste of their brown skin on my lips.
And in that strangeness I almost loved you again—
the shade of your nascent beard,
the wickedness in your eyes,
and the look across the space below us,
always racing to where it shall never rest again…
The last time we stood together—
before it all broke,
before the silence was brand new again—
we were leaning over the railing,
an atrium of fresh empty floors cascading beneath us,
looking over the void in the same direction,
at the stage, pining for the same thing
that was singing over the music and underneath our reborn hunger.
The pauses that we cloaked with the strumming of our fingers
grew wider than we knew what to do with.
And every now and then the familiarity would drop
like a baby on its head—with a round thud
and the absence of a scream.
It was then that we first let our names
grow distant to our ears again
and the rest of the sentences to our selves.
It was there that I noticed the hair sprouting between your knuckles
and tried to imagine the taste of their brown skin on my lips.
And in that strangeness I almost loved you again—
the shade of your nascent beard,
the wickedness in your eyes,
and the look across the space below us,
always racing to where it shall never rest again…
5 comments:
for some reason this reminds me of the balconies at the museum in philly.
and dinosaur skeletons.
it's lovely, dear. i am espcially drawn to the part about the hair between his knuckles. details like that hold so much value for me. details like that make it all so human and make it believable, make it real and true and open.
those details are the life a poet can see.
I second Katy's comments. Wow. thank you for sharing.
"an atrium of fresh empty floors cascading beneath us"
so fluid and peaceful.
This is so narrative in the sense that part of the logic that controls the movement in this poem is about spaces (and the space that time is) and the things in and arround them. Mirvat's use of the word fluid is very apt to describe what we experience here. You words have the magical ability to take us with them as they journey.
A warm ache of a beauty. Unspoken words -- between people drifting apart -- come to mind.
Loved all three stanzas. Definitely feeling a bit of the elicited pang.
(And waiting for a new poem. ^_^ Cheers.)
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