I sit under trees sketching
the things that could've been
on the black and white canvas
five light years away.

you jog my memory,
to a place I once knew,
and whisper whistles
in the pitch dark,

of stabbing words winding
down my chest chirping
gurgling sounds that
reverberate 'round
the weeping chest.

a chest-
of empty drawers drawn
silhouettes hollowing out
everything I once knew,
I'm beginning to hate even
the beautiful things.

you whisper out
whirling songs waving
at mosaics and frescoes
fuming in situ for - ever
because they couldn't dance

but I enjoy, I actually do—
for a little while when
you're caliginous, when
the twigs and sprigs dance,

moving in sync with the world,
the sky and the oceans,
and yet two things
remain unbothered
peace and silence.