you tore free from me, then grew back again
around us, empty faces like a monochrome soup
pale flashes drifting through perfumed breezes
drops of it falling from the sky, unrefrigerated
I see you as fragile, though you would never admit it
above your stubborn chin sit two sad specks
eyes in the thicket, let us sleep on birds’ backs
lean against me, we laugh into soft feathers
reality interests me no more than the weather
it is there, as an unavoidable framework
we do not fall into it, since falling requires
a wind, a shore, or some fixed, solid point
but there are none — only the falling itself
which is life, carried onward from our bird’s back
together we become memory — each of us surrendering
ourselves, perishing alone, yet the shared minutes’
time-images remain caught, if nowhere else — within you
and if in the end they will fade, it does not matter
for others need not know anything about us at all
lean against me, with your soft fingers’ cat nails
clinging on —the hopeless chaos of outer things
interests me no more than empty chatter
or the many kinds of crude lies — there are so many
as long as there is something left, in every moment
I would give you a silent—if I still had one with me.
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