I have loved you in each leaf of spring, each death of winter, till the turning seasons rose like dust beneath our bodies.
I still walk in the sun gazing at shadow, and there is no one behind me to bind my arm, to say, ‘Wait.’ I have looked for you in every face, mistook the face for you. Whoever you are, these dreams have loved you well.
I, too, have loved before. This world, its creatures and their fantasies, their swirling cosmos of act-word-intention, those brittle wishes, all the dreams lost to others — all that I have spun from my self, my translucent untied life. In my waking dreams I see their luminous marks. Murals that become graffiti, buffed nails, the prison walls chalked and hatched, stone upon kalend stone.
But this remainder I will lodge in my self, will shelter there as long as you wish it. I made you with everything I am not, an entire fall of water and desire, the sure direction of a riverine prayer.
I shall deny this.
And if there is no eternity, nor any other birth to tumble into, I shall still miss you.
I knew you by the shape of all absence. And savored
your scent like the sea-salt.
Life is still unperturbed by these folded knees.
The sea (or you) struck my tears, but slipped my hold thereafter. This took me for everything,
but the balance is still unmoved.
If there is only eternity, I will call you Krishna, and honor the illusion between the stars.