A lost object still exists, or there would be nothing for which to search.
Finding blades of dried grass, some crumbs, even a tiny bloodstain, as I turn pages in a library book. Reading about imaginary characters, while passing evidence of real lives:
those who touched these pages before me.
Belongings of the dead remain, like mute triggers for our guilt, over loving words we found no time to speak.
How many kinds of silence are there between us? Perhaps it is a sign of closeness, this ease in each other’s silence.
Do I really know someone if I am deaf to their silences?
Memories or geology: darkness and metamorphosis, seething in unseen masses.
Bad enough that we must die: to spend life tormenting one another is a sort of obscenity.
Death approaches. People fall away. Bringing realisation of primal aloneness.
Can I love for a moment?
What else is there but the moment?
Should I write about women when I have never gone beyond their eyes?