You lay in bed,
legs curled up to your chest,
hands clasped around your knees,
your curious face buried
with innocence too painful to speak,
your soft lips parted, dark strikes of your hair unfurled like lightning,
asking
how long I will live.
I don't know if
the far moon should ever come back to the sea, if
there stood a mirror garden above the fated clouds, if
the last horizon could bear the struggling glare of the sun falling
into the lap of the universe, sleeping into peace.
But I know about the little birds
chirping on the windowsill,
the worm rolling under the quiet earth,
and the lone pine tree in the wind.
I don't know know what you meant
when your hands stirred along
to a song you used to whisper to me,
or when your wide, dry eyes gazed at the air enormous,
unmoving, each slow breath mounting
endlessly.
I stood watching your beautiful light
carry you to where you were leaving.
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