Some kaleidoscope frame of you:

fragmented but precise and beautiful.

The sun sets later now. I may be seasick if I stay on this ship any longer. The lateen sails will wait. I think I’ll have one more cigarette before time slips under the horizon (y < 0). But then

I saw you that day, in the library. I saw you through the quiet shuffle of feet and heard you through numbered shelves and multi-colored covers. The green book was there. I saw you from the space between shelf and book, the space where they wait patiently for someone to have use, to have need of them. Eyes running along, jumping to the next number, searching for the words like weather-worn glyphs and I could feel the cracks down the book binding me to it.

I stayed still in that place, I saw you move, shift your feet as if to leave but I could not say anything in the silence of that cement building – silence rules there and the only words I have had of late are not my own.

Machines now run those gears have been turning, been turning since the beginning of them. I keep the days but (time is relative and) I have since lost the power to interpret each calendar, each cycle in we who are binary stars, dancing around each/the other in darkness. I feel the archaeologist. Sometimes I have only a mythos left of you. Sometimes I sniffle softly for having let it wear away- I cannot polish crumbling stone now, for fear the pictures will smear.

Yes, I have the fear. I should have whispered in the library. Should I? Will I see you there again? I cannot speak, but glancing eyes can grin, can speak.