One evening, across an ocean, you turned to me with your lips lined with thought. I could not hear those last words, watching in mute horror as the marble stole into your eyes and traversed your face, down your neck and over your body, your legs, to your arms raised in silent farewell. The magic had come undone. In that instant, you were lost and all I held was a memory, as dead as alabaster. I knew then that there would be no more words.
Was it in words that you came alive? Listening to midnight music, I lie awake and wonder how your plaster construct took on breath, if the unspoken was louder than what was written. A year has passed and my pen still lies heavy. It’s been another seven since I last saw you. Are you still robed in clouds? A purple wind. A secret world?
I should tell you that I dreamt of you two nights ago. You sat on the broken steps of an amphitheater, bound by orange lamps, steam rising from concrete buildings as the noiseless troupe sang in an oval pit. You stood in recognition, held out a hand to greet me, and in those quiet hours swaying to Circadian rhythms, the months passed. What were we then, unwitting particles in an imagined reality. Strange, that I never dreamt of you before. Not that I should have by any means.
How prophetic, that absence yields to longing.
Patience, impatience. A man becomes smoke and broken promises, yielding to cowardice, afraid of the silence privy to flesh-and-blood; so I’ve waited too long until the heat ran cold and turned to stone. But here it is, paper is my medium. And now that you have stepped away so cleanly, languished and disappeared so neatly, I will write. My words have always portended the future. Tragic, that our first poem foretold the end.