It’s been seven days
that have passed,
in this world
without you.
And I’m still searching,
for your face,
scrolling for memories
in the dark.
It was Fall when we began,
our stained hands,
tipping trays.
He’s cute you whispered,
a friendly aside.
The openings when
you showed up,
you always showed up,
always knew that
it mattered.
Later, Houston.
Turell at dawn,
Twombly by lunch,
Rothko in the afternoon.
A stolen day
Just for us..
Summer, binding books,
frustrated with the folding,
with the exactness of the making.
You took what you needed,
leaving the rest,
making it yours
uniquely, brilliantly,
perfectly
yours.
New Orleans in December, .
A balm of dusty beignets
on a cold afternoon.
Last month, of you,
the only mention —
It’s a drag, you said,
but I’m doing okay,
I just get really tired.
And I believed you,
about the okay part.
A shared vision —
my words colliding
with your blues, ochres, silver.
our expanding constellations
on the page.
I’ll do it soon. I said.
Weeks passed.
I heard you, at the end, saying hi,
at the end, I heard you.
Not knowing,
it was the last time.
And in my diary,
my note, too late:
- poem for Paula.