Twenty Three

/ Thursday, December 16, 2010 /
with her tired hands
she fumbled for the strings
that once held
the pieces
of that Sunday evening
when the skies

choked of almost blinding light;
when everything in sight
spoke of wanderings
and untethered feelings.

for he was once free;
she was once silenced.

at last!
they found answers
on the same Southern shore
but she was already one
with the horizon
while he chose
to be chained to oblivion.

she wrote twenty-two letters;
he made love to sad mothers
and untouched sisters, too
they both burnt into
blue, cool embers.

with his palms
opened wide, he threw away
what was left
of that Sunday dusk
because it was
when he,
wandered back into his past
and she,
wondered if it would be the last.

*

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I usually say, in the end, okay, it’s love and it’s work — what else could there possibly be? -- Maira Kalman

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