Both diverged from the start.
He did more yellow dishes,
He wanted faces and names.
While gravity aged toward the sea,
Performing for the undergrowth,
Heaving its first sighs,
They returned to their rooms
And together took their first steps back.
Their melodious afternoons, spent tied together,
Seemed far back in time.
Their straining grief,
And their insistence on running
Heightened their ineptness.
His tiny entrechats tell such a deal,
Tension taut as telephone wire,
And in their home grew neither truth, nor death.
Both their feet have turned to rime,
Leaving them standing forever.
He is hers, eternally,
Yet they lay
As two, not one.