The waxed, cleanly shaven sun
tied fables around the mountain dune
like a white rope pulls in day.
My smudged and grimy shoe wear
scraped against the frayed wood,
and I trudged inside the sooty walls
wondering how your memory had
evaporated soundlessly and swiftly,
for the following century I never left,
winter had materialized
without a token of familiarity.
Our two rooms
never joined echoes,
this quilt of twilight
forest and fire
retires into the book,
of drowning myths.
