Time Lapse Photography
I hear you come and go
in my dreams
and in cloudy camphor windows.
I hear you when I hear other steps
down the corridor, other voices
that aren’t yours. I recognize your worn
amaranth and feather hands,
here, on the shore of your wasteland.
We were to meet but you didn't show up.
An ocean more powerful than night
seized you in its hands like a scattered flower.
Your photograph looks at me from where
you are not, from where I do not know you,
from where everything is a lie
you leave your eyes to look at me.
For reasons, I don’t seem to grasp
you've gone on a trip,
and it's like you've never been here,
you’re just―so soon―one of those stories
some old maid told me in the kitchen.
The things that speak of you lie,
your last face lied to me as I leaned over it,
because it wasn’t you and I was embracing
that which the infinite removed
little by little.