IT IS NOT EVEN THE MEMORY THAT WAS
No human intimacy, only that dead star reminding
This message goes out, a pulsed thought
Beneath the blind heaven whose walls are taller
Just the fingerless wind attempts to comfort
Stroking my temple, a touch on my brow.
Perhaps, this is it,
The one who stays with me now.
I would make love to the dead
For they are my company.
We share the silence, my lips, their past,
Coming together. Inevitability.
But how can I commune with those
Who no longer have a voice?
The colour of forgotten is black.
It is not even the memory that was.