I let go your hands knowing you are a quicksand of love. In another lifetime perhaps, where land steams with moisture and grasses sway all the way to horizon; now I have my eyes fixed on the path ahead, an unwavering light pointing the direction.
Years ago I wore a blouse embroidered with dreams that wove both of us in its warp and weft. Now with seams frayed and the design run dowdy, I have folded it away in an old box among camphor balls.
Night after night the sky is emptied of stars and moon, like a band of silk robe without shimmer or wrinkle. On such a night I realise I am emptied of love, overcome with the sickness of stumbling out of bed to scoop moonbeams in my palms.
Hollowing the walls that make my home, I build a scaffold to hold an empty space. Bricks crumble when intimacy pours through the hole like loosened cement. It’s time to leave the building that exists only in my heart and nowhere else.