une reveuse

“…tears which gleamed like pearls on her dark eyelashes.”

that Sunday in July when we were young and did not look into the abyss,

I had no need of a ghost. I was my own haunting.

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Anyway, sleep. Thus harmless, tucked into a safe space. That isn't what I come upon down in the night world, though. Instead, precipices. Mazes and escapes. Remorse, and words that were not said. Encounters with the dead, who turn away from me, still angry. (Did I find brightness? Maybe. Meadows? Flowered pastures? Greetings? Glad surprises?) (My dearest, is it you?)