Hope flutters, sometimes, across your eyes,
on those days when you pace across the terrace,
back and forth, back again, like an old pendulum.
Your steps resonate in the air. The world is empty,
but there is you, moving and living in this still-life
of a house, all faded colors and discreet drafts.
She watches you sometimes, from afar,
a skittish, pale bird with broken wings.
She dares not breathe, for fear you will notice.
A whisper, and you turn. The doorway gapes empty,
as if it were the entrance of some deserted,
dangerous labyrinth. You cannot see her,
yet she is there, transparent and fragile. You thought
you heard her voice, her steps on the floor, but you are not sure.
She left, long ago; too late, she came back. Silent, she looks on.
There is the sun, setting, and there is you.
She can reach neither, so she watches and, sometimes,
to her lonely eyes, it seems like you shine too.
I just dug this one back from an old folder - dates from about three years ago. I liked it, so I figured I'd share and see what you lovely people thought about it.
