It’s been said
love’s accents are all that remain,
the patois of paradise.

The bloodrush, quick pulse,
nuance, inflection,
when spirits soar.

But now there are no words.

Every way back
to you is blocked.

Halls that lead to nowhere:
the shady corners
of your maze.

I shout your name
from under the canopy,
ancient fronds.

Cool pools lap,
the sole reply
in chill morning.

Haze about my ankles
swirls and spirals me up,
through the thicket.

I search about the mist,
but find I’m no less lost,
despite this vantage.

I sense
I am

I return to my native seat
when the music stops,
sure to find you there,
but mistaken.

I am alone
on the edge that lies ahead,
eternal as the road behind.

So strange to live forever?

Stranger still
that we were at all.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013