You return, though you know:
your glances toward the world
are bloodless.
Just as empty—your dreams,
too ashamed to be dreamed.

You are close enough
to resurrect silence,
to strip the world of shadows.
Your thoughts wander
along the same worn paths;
tears flow
against the current of sorrow.

I am too lost to believe
in longing.
Perhaps tomorrow
will bring at least one memory.

The venomous present
will turn into
an unfinished autobiography.
Perhaps God will teach us
to wait—slowly.

A night will bloom within us,
a night no one dares
to name aloud.
I become a body
awaiting a prelude to freedom.