I Called You

You stand in an awkward setup. An
old film studio now out of purpose. As if
uselessness turning itself around. Wires
hanging distastefully few metres away
from you. Like a little of past that affects
not the present. Mildewed is the adjective
of the wall behind you. Your thermocot
resisting the early december chill from
reaching you. Somewhere silence too is
restricted by a thick rain. Uninvited none
get entertained. Your hands between the
unending absence of dark is aware of
what it touches in the jagged railings.
I stand on the ground and call you.
So meek my voice, you couldn’t
listen. Like a mailbox delivering ten
mile end telegram. What is the word
for a sound that transcends into an
unevidence. I called you again. And
realized my mouth acquainted to spun
of it, made the same kinesics as a
ripple running over another. You
looked down like skies. And smiled
like clouds bathed in goldenness. For
a moment I felt so damn accomplished,
each squirrel of my desire seemed find
a nut above the snow-clothed earth.