Thursday, August 17, 2006

the waystation

i am in this empty house, drifting
in her imagined scent and soft skin.

beyond the doors are sand and cool sea
and this may be the place where i die.

not and end, a point of departure.
i shall miss the quirky endearments;

the look of the eyes and curve of lips;
the strange smile she sometimes shows.

i always wondered what it was like
or felt, to be on the backside of a mirror.

manhattan beach. october 2004


i wrote the first draft of this almost two years ago. it took a longer time to let go of something in order to finish the piece.

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