The end of the story came almost
before its beginning.
I dreg out the final pieces that make the story –
I find a few scattered fragments,
the rest is history.
I watch the burial of old friends,
the silent mourning
through which the tears flow.
I almost sense you are still there,
my senses lie.
At the graveside the mourning has stopped,
the mourners have healed themselves.
I stand upright, ready to leave,
ready for baptism by the King of Thieves –
One night, I almost imagine a world
I prefer this one, though insubstantial
and spectral. I would rather the cold glare
We stand forever at the brink of nothing,
even the mists seem more attuned.
Our voices like moth-breath, our minds
vainly piercing the shadows,
I sense a part of me is missing,
instead there is a glow within me.
A part, the tiniest of parts of me
belongs to you.
And in my heart, you let slip, a part
the tiniest of parts.