Something about love and life and maybe sadness. |
Thus Far Untitled S.T. Owen I would not have you as a friend You could not love me as a friend. When one day we would part Upon some street of fallen leaves, Our feet crushing the broken pieces Of that beautiful china And leave me bare and very quiet, In that grey and crumbling road. And if instead we fell together Like so many waves upon the rocks, Wearing each other down Into something smooth and beautiful And your hands became my home, Running over the cracked stone Of my ribs and my neck. Wearing them down To make them smooth And beautiful. Or, if I were alone at last, Like a final note Upon the final sheet of music Of a full and lonely song... Would I find faces in the patterns of my sofa In my smoke, in my coffee, Would they speak with me In my aching wrinkled face of an embrace Of composure and terror. . . . If you were with me and alone, Truly alone, With nothing but the sound of sheets Whispering as we move to stretch our legs, The table buried by dirt and stones Of our writing; Our ideas, our young confidence. The dishes leaning against one another In the sink like wounded soldiers,waiting for a sound In the pitiless silence before morning. And could I bear to let you find Some lonely piece of me, Could I hold it out-shaking and small-before me and say “I’m sorry, this is all there is.” Like a final offering of empty pockets In the final clothes of some cold and ancient beggar, With his last breath, and the final lilt of his eyes Before the crumbling of the walls The breaking of the china The crash of morning The violent end of everything Of nothing at all. |