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.