Should the summers’ evening glow create the shadow on her face,
turn from blue to pink to the colour of closed eyes,
watch the thought form on her features, perfect domesdays,
see the way her eyebrows twist, face contort.
Read her mind; look, smell, aftermath. Cut her off midthought.
Should she stand, still untethered? Did she have to?
Watch the moon take the sun home, then wave her goodbye,
stare at the dark, see it blink as your chest rises, falls,
confirmation you’re still alive, feel the decision solidify.
Who would find you first, would you take them by surprise?
Or would they have known; nothing to rationalise.
You’re not really thinking. Why would you need to?
Perhaps God could be the ceiling above me all along,
see me sitting, staring – unmoving.
Was I lazy, was this all wrong?
Would people know me as I am, or not know me – just
think of me?
It wouldn’t matter, I wouldn’t be there to think of it as unsatisfactory.
I think that people would bounce back. Why would they
need to dwell on it.