in the alcove
that christened us,
a thousand dreams lay strewn.
Two searching eyes,
just like that,
on the pilaster of the walls
just created.
Destitute tears
sink back.
Into the hollow reception
of echoes and recesses.
The hearth
runs out of wood
or is it fire?
Long wait
longer longings
Chilling even the furniture
you just rearranged.
