Thus Far Untitled - Poem

Thus Far Untitled
S.T. Owen

I would not have you as a friend
You could not love me as a friend.
When one day we would part
Upon some street of fallen leaves,
Our feet crushing the broken pieces
Of that beautiful china
And leave me bare and very quiet,
In that grey and crumbling road.

And if instead we fell together
Like so many waves upon the rocks,
Wearing each other down
Into something smooth and beautiful
And your hands became my home,
Running over the cracked stone
Of my ribs and my neck.
Wearing them down
To make them smooth
And beautiful.

Or, if I were alone at last,
Like a final note
Upon the final sheet of music
Of a full and lonely song...
Would I find faces in the patterns of my sofa
In my smoke, in my coffee,
Would they speak with me
In my aching wrinkled face of an embrace
Of composure and terror.

. . .

If you were with me and alone,
Truly alone,
With nothing but the sound of sheets
Whispering as we move to stretch our legs,
The table buried by dirt and stones
Of our writing;
Our ideas, our young confidence.
The dishes leaning against one another
In the sink like wounded soldiers,waiting for a sound
In the pitiless silence before morning.

And could I bear to let you find
Some lonely piece of me,
Could I hold it out-shaking and small-before me and say
“I’m sorry, this is all there is.”
Like a final offering of empty pockets
In the final clothes of some cold and ancient beggar,
With his last breath, and the final lilt of his eyes
Before the crumbling of the walls
The breaking of the china
The crash of morning
The violent end of everything
Of nothing at all.