The passing rain drags cigarrette butts
into tiny pools along the pavement
while buildings with Elizabeth Taylor faces
try desperately not to show their age.

The mystery and grace I saw when we
first walked this road together has been
washed away like the best of intentions
with only the here and now left to call my name.

When leaving she quoted something
that sounded like verses from the other
side of Babel and as intended I felt confused
but the line "it is impossible" was crystal clear.

Now all that is left is to go to my room and
fall asleep on the pillow where her perfume
carries memories of clasped fingers and
cloud sprinkled diamonds...where all is possible.

28 August 2008

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