Monday, September 19, 2005

Rien

Slope of an empty spoon that moonlight grazes and goes away

Bereft lily pad in a pond, clinging to a scent that wouldn't stay

Fading blackness of the night

A last unturned page

Old brown blood

Green raw bud

A cracked glass that won't hold a drink

Spilt perfumed wine

Not all, not much, not all that much
-But that is what it means to miss.

1 comment:

neha said...
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