A soft breeze with the slippery concrete black and full of
muddy slush, contrasting with the hoarfrost, clean and hung
on a tunnel of silent shivering trees (the ones you said you'd
like to be), and the birds that screamed at the sun now buried
deep down below the ground, beneath the snow, I press my
shoulder to this wall between us. I know you are behind me
but I press my shoulder to this wall, determined not to turn
around. I know I'll see you standing, still that statue that I
molded in my mind to kiss, so beautiful you'll never move
again. Someplace far away, at some sad table littered with
bad light, with chipped plates, in 48 frames from a movie on
the cutting room floor, you said "True meaning would be
dying with you", and though I wanted to, I did not smile. But
now I will give up on this wall that we have fought with, never
uncover meaning behind our rich words. If I could I would
make you a raging river, with angry rapids, supplied with
rain, so you could always meander and forever be able to run
away without contending with myths wrongly interpreted with
pain. A harsh wind