Moving On

I counted your steps as you walked away

And with my gaze I stroked the curls of your nape –

Golden like wheat – like silent Sunday

Caresses, clutching warm sheets of morning stillness

With the tips of my fingers

I traced every angle of your back –

Broad and bold –

Until it was no more than a fissure

In the distance,

A splinter in the wind

And with my lips of inflamed crimson

I blew a kiss

So that it may seek you

And love you tenderly

When the rain pours

Crude and cold as blades

Or truth