Parting Sickness | this faded interior
Like twirling heels on polished wood you go without leaving a trace
You will come back — won’t you?
But there will be tears and there will be doubts. Time and time again she might peer across the balcony into the glimmering night — and her tears would fall and fall across her face and coalesce. Like little silver mirrors on the railings.
Is this the way time passes? Like twirling heels on polished wood you go without leaving a trace, your face melts into these floorboards and these plaster walls. Said I loved you — but what is a lover without you to love? What is a solo waltz?
Said this will soon pass over. Said you will die. Said your laugh will gather and well like swallows gathering in the morning light — all fluttering and no sound — flocking and dispersing into the cold sharp air.
And Aristotle tells me — that one swallow does not make a summer. But what good is half a wing?
