Falling From Western Skies

In the mirror, I see his face
It has been so long since I have
heard the soft of        his voice
along the wire―
its sweet laughter
         forming my lips
                     to a curve.

        It has been hours since I have sensed
the fruit on his breath through
dialogue and delight
a stirring like no other.

And I will wait
a small existence against the horizon, wait as my
fingers turn to numb, until the slightest movement
brushes my flesh against his.

I sit on the white sands of a late September morn,
watch the tide feed back into the sea.

Far off, the precipice stretches to sky:
it stands from one end to the other of
my undying admiration.

I gather my pen, begin a letter:

Dearest one,

Drown by tangled sentiment, reflective
in thought―my hands tremble
as I write.

This place, a landscape of vigor - it demands
the passion caught carelessly in my hair,
but I do not
give in.

Everything that forms my breath,
remains contained in your hands, held
softly as first snow. It presses me
to call out your name,
     but you
         are not here.

And the tide is rising―
fresh water that fingers my flesh as you might.
Its want, deep-seated, eyes empty, like the way
I am on days without your warmth.

You pulsate inside me, leave me misplaced
in a season gone astray.

        I have searched for your face
in a crowded room, felt excitement from infinite
mountain sides, where all the every things
are counted like blue cars or drops of rain.

Here, as the last words fall away,
I surrender myself.

        Here, where the thread that ties one
voice to another will carry us quietly, to a place
where we can unfold these
cold and bare
hands.