End to a beginning, II

My body parts, they make a vessel

If I die and disappear –

I will get to the truth.

Out of the frame. I’m out,

and we are one.

On our way I look at you,

coming to a realization –

the form of the most hurt,

lies in the steps you retreat.

To my frustration, not reached;

to your violence, non-defied.

For a man the best way to hide his weakness,

is to raise his hand –

an action not predictable,

through a pattern seemingly complicated.

He doesn’t deserve an easy love.

As his hand is not made to carry signals,

it is standing –

a mountain to crush from the celestial,

and lies the punishment as its only endpoint.

Outwards or the retreat of the coming,

either way I’m no longer an existence if it were born.

The shell permits softness yet it is read pain,

it is coming back to me.

Feet in. Eyes.

Marching in. Turning.

Leaning. Hand out.

Sudden air. Silence. Hands. Frozen. Door shut.

We may as well know each other from another time.