She buries her eyes into the grey pane,
the sad decline sinking behind the years
spent fighting dust and wishing wells.
She has grown but only older
and I only weaker in devising the merciful lie.
Far beyond plains and every sea traverse,
only I can trace you and it is evoked by resent;
all in spite of reason's protest.
Forty two letters penned into the steam of
cold solitude in that window;
forty two letters and still the rain from her eyes,
while I
only I wearing through the cheery veneer,
silently leaning on the inner heavens,
may each lie live to last.