Middle of the night muse



This came to me in the night, and for once, instead of telling myself that I would remember in the morning, I got up and put it down while it was still with me.



Into the night we move
restless, footsteps heavy with grief
and guilt. We do not speak about these things—
these things that enter the spaces between us and hang
like veils of thick smoke: the long ash of a cigarette left burning
and forgotten

intentions not kept, never intended as promises—
We keep the silences of our anger alive, synchronous
with drops of rain on black panes of glass and the second hand
of my favorite old watch, left to wind down from disuse and neglect:
Past caring, we have forsaken the fraying thread of our conversation
at the beginning

where we began—this flaying of words
fraught with sadness. We do not acknowledge these things—
the deep wounds created by the unrelenting intent of our desires
laid bare, left abandoned to heavy-hearted despair and needful disquietude:
Neither touching nor speaking, we pass one another, leave by different doors
for our separate journeys

into the night.

September 13, 2009

More later. Peace