In your kitchen, the planes of your face remind me of a cliffside,

stories worn into the rock, soft where it has crumbled.

Wrinkles that shine like sun on the sea at dusk,

eyes a wave moving in and out of the light,

they have trapped laughter and song.

Every line of you

splits me apart.

“A person who’s dying is the greatest source of life,” you said,

as though the loss of you wouldn’t rip a hole in my sky.

Your falling cliff, eroded by time; your empty shell

buried on a beach; your raindrops, only ripples

on a pool after

they cease

to exist.

You were an antiques dealer. You restored each piece, touch

by careful touch, with a magnifying glass. You cradled

universes. Resurrected history with your hands.

Later, you taught me how to draw, all neat

orderly lines. Then you tore up the page,

tumbled scraps of me

to the floor.

You took me to a mansion with windows into a closing world,

Said this was where you used to live. You did it up yourself.

Wide pebbled drive, sculptures on the walls, granite

fireplace. All I could think about was a home

without you; empty rooms, furniture

frozen under

dust sheets.

You say you feel lucky to know in advance, to live every minute,

but I am disintegrating. The cliff looks solid until water pulls

it apart. Stone worn to rubble, sunk and tossed,

sand dragged over beaches.

The white chalk of you

              slips

                        in

                                 to  the

                                              sea.