in the end there is only disappearance
and beneath the still surface
of this flow of backwards gestures
there is the unfortunate us,
scared as hell by the lives that we decide to
bury, pressing pain on old photographs,
chasing a new silence as the only possible
comfort zone, harvesting dust.
we knuckle under to the ashes
of those that once breathed
and loved in our bones,
each time we decide
we will not know anything of ourselves,
bodies that never were here.
