If you can,
describe its familiarity.
My hand
dives into contest
between black velvet,
the night, the right
to be recognized.
Your coming death
will enter in the second
that tears will,
while I drop the weight
from a tight grasp.
From warmth
into being frozen,
into nourishing
the earth
upon a whirlwind.
I’m already
delivering fear
into another world,
the one I’d prefer
to see burn.
I’m embracing
remaining moments,
remembering
loud ticks
from a towering clock,
built in the middle
of a ghosttown.
I’ll still search
one erased scene
for the smallest sign
of your beloved life,
while I know
I’ll be just as delivered
to the silence.
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