What There Is Now

 

Your string of pearls,
each bead knotted
for a year of your age,
three more for the hope
you’ll never reach,
stays warm
in my hand;

Your painting:
the sun above
all that black sand,
fire flecking the dunes
you never trusted,
holds to the wall,
flickering.

The house is hollow,
echoes the air
around your far bed.
I know you now
for a tired messenger,
light in the sliding shadows,
heat at my fingertips.