I have 13 seconds of you
speaking the words of a poet.
Beautiful but not yours.
In the cracks between
Neruda’s paving stones
live the breaths
you’ve taken
to lay them.
Woven through his phrasing,
plays the cadence
of your ordered memory
reeling their filaments
out into the ether.
The syllables each wear
their tonal halos
tuned to what they’ve
meant to you.
I think, of all poets,
Pablo would understand
when I say
he’s in the way.
“In the cracks between
Neruda’s paving stones
live the breaths
you took
to lay them.”
I am in awe and so completely understanding this.
So simply beautiful. Not a wasted word.
I don’t know why but Pablo Neruda’s If You Forget Me popped in my head.
I loved the tourist. Thank you. I’m aroused by the borders of lust and love. and seek solace in their tension.