I was alone; the clouds were unreal.
In the morning the clouds did not matter anymore;
or so I told myself, as though I could make myself forget;
as though, just by wishing, I could force condensation away.
The clouds were there but they weren’t clouds
The clouds lingered in the back of my mind.
I made a door in the wall and it closed upon me.
I made a door in the wall and I tried to crawl through.
I reached my hands into the hole in the world; as I reached
it slammed shut and the blade took my fingers off at the knuckle.
And then, with the stumps of my fingers bleeding, the way fingers cut
to the bone will do, I wanted to find my way home but the paths had changed.
It had rained and washed the earth and my footprints; I was lost.
But I made another door, my hands painting the frame red
and it stayed open for me, as if the blood was all it had wanted.
It stayed open and I walked through alone. The clouds and you
remained on the other side (you’d always been there). I passed through and as I did
I felt a breath of wind, like the faint touch of something ending.