Musk Untitled

The weight of your absence bruises my spine, painfully, I crawl toward your last shadow, my nose buried in your scent, lost in your pungent musk, Your shoes are silent, your hair coiled against your skin caressing tendrils of memory, Shall I wait or follow the trail of our lingering fire? Shall our days yet hover, our nights descend to grass? - owls of Venus can’t answer nor valleys where once I lay in knowing their every turn, burning highways piercing, and still calling, perhaps – a sobbing echo, the melancholy mercy of tears, blank windows – eyes, while I take cruel pillows in my arms, their silk a distant covering, a veil, for is there speech, sound, the silver thread of words? Are my ears an emptiness? a hollow wail for owls and valleys – - still not answering and now my feet, my knees, my grasping hands are silent silent silent