Coming, as we did, to the empty chairs
Unraveled in lavender ribbon,
Unknowing;
in lavender ribbon.
And sitting tenderly as she would have
and she would have.
You and I, our maroon contusions,
we snapped our bones,
and we picked them, one by one,
As vultures of our own production.
We found what was there but not here,
gone but once very near.
And carefully, with binding consolation for the
disappointment,
Careen down we did, have done, shall do
to our places, our chairs.
And in fragile light,
our spirits wandered, and sat, tenderly,
as she does, in many
mahoganies or cedars.
Still vultures,
delicately massacring our own bones
until it becomes apparent
that love itself was lost not
in the mire of our rebuttal,
but in the moment of the break, the crack,
and, itself, love, is not to be found
nor sought, but,
it will slink down,
Tenderly as it does,
as she does.