Poetry

In the dust
from the dust. I will see your
face daily,
in between the spaces
in between the hunger―
against the wall, where you were
asked to stand erect
before...
 
The clock was moving without
hands. I will hear only the
tick, in dark, like the regular
heartbeats.
 
Ultimately the space wins. We start
moving apart. The distance increases.
Echo becomes dull and
then acoustics fail.
 
Only the specks now speak.
Each spot was a name
was somebody, was a living being.