Perhaps
the time I saw you--
laughing,
with budding life
in your hands--
perhaps
it was nothing more
than a splinter
that pierced the pathways
of my brain,
a sliver softly tossed into
my well of wishes.
Mirrored eyes watched
and sighed
at pages of impavid ink
pressed, imprinted on your arms,
bluish veins like spindles
turning,
spinning words together.
I started at the end--
your finger marked the place--
and read the backward
lines across your palms,
drifted to the roundness of
your shoulders, searching
for the source--
until
sharply,
I was cut short,
an unfinished sentence
snapped across your collarbone,
a brittle branch
without a root.
I could not find your heart
beneath it, there were only
unwritten spaces,
smooth skin
and nothing more.
