Saudade

a discourse with smoke

Photo by Uliya Kurilova on Unsplash

You are the silhouette of a shallow breath,

a word whispered darkly,

a pillar of smoke holding up the heavens—

Desideratum.

You are so far away

behind some door taking place.

What perplexity of flesh,

what geometry of prose,

what splendor illumines your lips

and hymns you in desolation?

I cannot touch these hands

calloused, inviolable,

Nor that smile, painted tenderly

clement, delectable.

The apple flushes.

The worm trembles as the earth shakes,

triumphantly swallowing our steps.

We are dragged,

like sinews from a relic,

weeping.

I know the sadness that shares your bed—

I am robed in its fallacy.

We cling to its tattered folds.

Misery accompanies the fervent whimper,

the quiet supplication,

but offers no shelter from scorn.

Oh, that I could write the sorrows that carved the lines of your face

and offer them to be burned.

To be everywhere in some violet mist

and fade like star light at dawn

to die as a glimmer in your eye.