Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold.
— W.B. Yeats

At that moment, when we stood wordless
by the last train’s wheels,
when nothing was to save
except the weight of every
fallen thing,
when it began –
when our love
grew tired of getting high,
I clearly saw it
this secret way down
that reaches no end.
The sun sank under Paris,
rust-red,
and birds alighted in the streets
like little grey stones.
The good heavy weight
of body upon body
replicated,
as it was
before we started floating.

Down was the only place
to go, believe me.
You were life itself,
I took root at your coming.
I heard your heart breaking
against the city
as I drank in your mouth.
I could stay in this terminal
all night
listening to that sound.

I saw flowers of blood
in the bare trees.
The world red
as the center of the earth.
Everything burning,
everything wet.
Wine got thicker,
sex unappeased,
unappeasable.
And more relief came
from your finite body
than from heaven.

Now, for sanity,
it’s later than you think.
Down is the only place
to be, trust me.
I got life for killing
that colour in me.
You are what I call
a life sentence.

The blue air carving
wings into my lungs
I don’t feel it.
So why pretend to ?
Only your voice runs through me
as a crack through a cup.
That sound is the only thing
that goes on living.
All the rest is mute and drifting,
all the rest flits in zero-gravity.
The intolerable weight
of the universe
never decreases,
the music between lovers
never dies.
The note lasts.

I call it absence
our soundless indifference.

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