Three Dots in the Night
Three Dots in the Night
I open your window of gold, a lake of glass in the night,
I stare at your name for five centuries, a mute and gentle morning star,
I type "hey" and snuff it out like a candle, type it again and snuff it out once more,
and my chest is a battlefield, with deaf drums of fog.
I rehearse questions like butterflies that die at the first flame,
"how are you?" is too gray, "how was your day?" too cold,
and "you were on my mind" is too bare, too clear, like a wound,
and I let the phone fall like a gravestone.
Three dots flicker, fireflies from a foreign land,
and my blood rises tenfold, like the sea toward the moon,
a "haha" becomes a secret file, encrypted under seal,
a delayed reply: a coffin of ice over the waters.
She is a cosmos inside me, I'm a small sound on her screen,
I stand at the edge of the abyss, her name written in the fog,
and an old door, heavy with years, urges me to rattle its bolt,
but I'm afraid of one word: "maybe," and in maybe I hide.
Everything I haven't said is vast beneath my eyelids, a chalice of embers,
so many words in my throat, like birds trapped in a bell,
what if she answers? what if she stays silent? Is the door sky or abyss?
and I fall silent like a mystic in the temple of an unspoken name.
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