Autumn, 2021
❄
Gone, and you were
away in arpeggio, sliding down
from the tower, a shadow sliced in two;
still, it was inevitability: dawn,
the rising sun thereafter, the glass of fragmented memory, and the rainbow of the gods
as they delivered to me: you,
creation of moons past.
You were 9 years old, 19 years younger than your mother.
You never listened, you never understood.
You were scared like we were, that day we followed you to the skies,
to the call of the night, against the beckoning of the raven oceans.
Perched on the mirage of humming motors, subdued as they were, in flight as in descent, we fell, down,
down, down, down,
your hand squeezing mine, but I couldn’t hold on,
I don’t want to die, you plead, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.
You were 28 years old, and you had taught me everything: about desire, about envy, about fate, about dreaming.
It was always about you.
It was always about you.
It was always about you.
Let me go, you echo into the dusk above the clouds, let me go, let me go.
But up here, there is only the silence of the creator and the creation.
I will never let you go again, I promise.