|
She covered up the mirror, hid his photo in the |
|
drawer. The sketches that he made for her were rip- |
|
ped and rolling across the floor. All memories and |
|
promises and plans they'd made were scratched or |
|
burned as Lisa laid her head down for the night. |
|
Still the pictures flowed day and night. There's |
|
no escape, there's no remission . . . This one's us in |
|
Paris, and this one's us in Rome. That mess was him |
|
in plasticene, those rocks were him in stone. And |
|
still she found no explanation why he left without a |
|
word. It seemed like such an ordinary night. Still the |
|
pictures flowed throuhg the night. No escape, no |
|
remission . . . They burned his few possessions and |
|
they buried him in sand. They spent his coins in cof- |
|
fee bars and calmly washed their hands. The only |
|
hint of retribution was a lack of intuition--left with |
|
dirty hands without a fight. How the curses flowed |
|
through the night. Made their escape, a fruitless |
|
mission . . . His ghost peeps through the curtains |
|
gently whispering her name. It hovers over crushed |
|
mementos trying to explain. And maybe it takes 40 |
|
years of patience, swimming through the tears. He'll |
|
guard her each and every lonely night. Still the pic- |
|
tures flow through the night. No escape, no |
|
separation. |