[a new house]
the key is in your hand.
You wish you could smile,
But something stops you.
The sky is overcast. A bird cries.
Your house is blue, of course,
As the sky above you as you open the door.
August is a form of fading.
The beginning of something.
The windows have no curtains yet.
You walk with small steps.
You listen to your own echo in the new floor.
The light gets in like blood drips from a bathtub.
The kitchen is pristine white.
The sink drips a sound of time passing.
The wind blows outside, as you breathe, slowly.
Soon, the house will be inhabited.
Warmth will fill every corner.
Your room will become eternal music.
I see a smile in your weak voice.
You look around and remember.
This is the way things are, after all.
I have nothing.
Objects reflect an absence:
We all know this.
To miss is not to be here:
a blank line.
I think of you, staring at the silence.
Last updated 20 May, 2005