the writing on the wall

last night I
was waylaid

by the
scent of your hair.

tangled in
tendrils of thoughts of you,

it shot to
the surface

like a
diver gasping for air.

and for a
second or two or three,

you crossed
the raging sea

and stood
here beside me

at the top
of the stairs,

watching
the dining table

surrounded
by solemn chairs.

I could
hear silence breathing

and the
memory receding

as my legs
heeded the call

to resume
the nightly journey

from the
dead tv

to the
empty bedroom.

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