Gushing like an open wound,
Her memoirs taints
First, the skin
Then the floor.
in a puddle
are his marbles
Bouncing back light
fallen on the ceramic floor
Note this spot where his spirit rustled and rests,
Resting until renewed with a long fresh breath.
For years she’s been actively patient. Uncomplaining;
Conceiving of the possibility of marrying
Stouthearted and dark
She had to strike
Till the already saturated papyrus gave.
Yet she didn’t, for all her thoroughness,
consider the paper, the thin paper
whose back was to withstand all what’s veined.
It could not
Not the abstract shapes and colours
Nor the splitting weight of her dormant passions.