When she is gone,
she is always gone too long.
And when she goes
she is mostly leaving me.
White dust in my hands, slipping through my fingers past my toes.
Everything dies so easily.
Each time she goes
I always ask ,
where it is, this time that she will run to.
Or I selfishly inquire when it is she will be back.
But at this state, all she does is laugh,
deliriously at me;
to suggest, my own madness.
As if her heavy boots were capable of such a swift getaway-
As if her mind were capable of such an expeditious return.