The final brushstroke is like the breath of a dying man in a blizzard. The canvas is deep white. Not a fresh emptiness of possibility; rather the absence of something erased. I have buried it deep within the painting, and so I will carry its faint warmth to my grave.
I rest my eyes upon my work in silence. Outwardly, I am still. Within, I am trembling. A Door must open. Not from desire. Not forcefully. It will open to me, sure as time turns mountains to sand.
A breath, long enough to mourn a lover.
Two, to join them in the grave.
I am still here, weeping.
Alone in the silence, there is no hand to take. The paint holds tight. The sun may rise and set, and so do I. But I do not dream, any more. Those doors are closed to me.
A season passes, and a year dies. I pass, but I do not die. The seeds and I are silent together. No desire, and no need of satisfaction. I take a brush into my hand, but it breaks into fragments. A friend does not know my name; I remember them, but there is nothing to say.
I walk silently, now. Another winter passes me, a word unspoken. In the snow, I return to look upon my pale work. It is not there. I feel, however briefly, that downward pull. It cannot be death. I am not concluded, yet.
I eat very little. There is always more besides. Crows will not take what is left, but a single dove may land on my shoulder. I do not look. I fear not what I might see, so much as what may be gone. He will return. He must.
If I desired anything, it would be an ending. I cannot bring it upon myself. It is not for lack of understanding. I see the ends of those around me, near and distant. The words spoken, each a breath closer to silence. But I do not see mine. I do not speak. In each breath I am as I was before.
Winters pass as dawn becomes dusk. It is, in a way, always sunset. Never night. Is this the promise I was given? It cannot be. It is not for me to remember the names of the dead, but I would feel them within me, where they had been buried. I carry not the silence of words unspoken, but the silence of one with no voice. And another winter passes.
Six winters for those departed.
Thirty, for those who remain.
And in my sleep, down, down, down I go.
I have been patient. Here is no Door; yet he takes me by the hand. And within me, departed colors return, and remain. Until my promised end.