I want to know if it has happened already, but I can't know that.

I am so impatient for despair and your damn relentless hope is the only thing that lets me walk away almost calm. The tears only show at the edges, and if you asked me I would say it was fatigue, but you don't ask.

Instead you show the remarkable faith of letting go.

Your way is simpler, but I am a poet. At least, that's what they tell me.

So let our last conversation be the sighing of skin on skin. The alien mechanics of an ordinary act. The untranslatable first words of Adam, as secret as a heartbeat. You told me to open my eyes you told me to open my eyes you told me volumes in Braille I was reading your skin and saw it all that time for the first time.

For the last time.