I suppose this loneliness will last
for the rest of my life.

The gentle stream of time
scampering the quiet palm leaves

escorts my slow-emptying body 
further away from me.

You never wanted to call the
thing inside a heart exactly.

Something more like a birdsong:
a delicate, arrhythmic melodic call

as impromptu as your wild desires,
scattered as the light in your eyes.

I suppose I left my body behind
there in the coastal apartment

when there was laughter before
you fell asleep.

Do you know the likeness now
of the man I had a longing to be

some time before the timbre of 
my own heart rusted through 

and before the darkness caught
up with me.

A man can love forever, even 
when his breath dwindles to ash

even when his musician leaves
her love behind.

I suppose you left my aging
voice behind there 

in the quiet morning light—
the cold summer light

broken with a blonde timbre
of wild, beautiful loneliness—

when there was laughter before
I fell asleep.