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The Disappearance

She is approaching through the storm

shrouded in stillness,

veiled in silence.

And so we meet again.

She sees right through my skin

but she has never shown her face.

She takes me in for shelter,

under her cloak of shadows,

under her crown of weeds and thorns;

Then when she opens up her mouth

she wakes that feeling of an ending.

Another hole is opening, wider and wider and wider,

and the song of the final scene begins to play.

I am watching through the window;

I am watching from a thousand years ago.

It is winter. I am waiting

at the window, to be swallowed and digested in the belly of the night.

But I still remember that time you told me,

“You are the maker

and you are the mender

and your footprints follow you

wherever you go.”

Wherever I go, even into the dark

in my shroud of stillness

and veil of silence.

She cannot touch me yet.

I am not finished.

Each day, my pen on paper

marks my feet upon the ground,

tracing patterns, painting pictures in my head.

I tell her,

“I am the taker

and I am the seer

and my footprints will follow me

into the snow.”

She breathes quietly on my neck

as I prick pinholes in her belly.

I am searching for something,

In the bleeding out light;

something I have heard once before.

a thousand tiny lights, through tiny holes

leading somewhere deep in nowhere

and I remember

I am looking for a pulse.

I have written out my story and thrown the pages to the wind,

knowing that the parts will never find each other.

It is beautiful because you told me, remember that you told me:

There is only one truth.

Tragedy is beautiful,

and beautiful things are tragic,

and our pretty little faces are growing older by the day.

Growing older,

getting closer,

getting thinner

by the day.

I found the ending of this story,

but now I can’t remember how it starts.

“I am the writer.”

Snow is falling on the fields

and the light is changing.

“I am the painter.”

The evening light is failing

as the shadows come alive.

“I am the darkness.”

No, I am the traveller,

over mountain tops under the moon,

slowly, slowly sinking to the sea.

So this must be the place that someday

my body will take root.


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