Here we are in the decent of desire,
like scentless daffodils in spring
swaying to the end of our love’s song.
A motionless hour stretches over our eyes
like white canvas, our faces drenched
in monotone blue -- bluer still in the light of moon
and the twinkling of a million stars.
Oh how the stars used to favor us
in the quiet simplicity of twilight’s glow.
They fed the fire that burnt and burnt
while the world turned round and round
like a carousel; and yet, we were going nowhere.
We are stuck in this hour, in this hollow room,
where no memories hang on the walls.
And the moon quivers in the corner
startled by a flamboyant sun --
its judgmental grin, painted across the sky,
flaunting the truth in your eyes.
Then, silence burst in, to prolong the remainder
of our hour. It is just as well you left the door ajar.
Maybe it will fill this hollowing room. Maybe
it will surround us, crowds us, until we are lost in it.
Breathe with me. Take in the salt air.
Let the bitter chill bubble up your throat.
We were once swept up into the sea,
only to be spit out among the rubble;
but we shall dance until the last hour—
the very hour the sea resolves to take you back.
And I will remain a single freckle on the white sand.
2011 © Helena Malheur
